


A Different Kind of (Sunny)hell

by OffYourBird



Series: The Jumpverse [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Season/Series 06, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-18 12:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 34
Words: 113,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13100100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OffYourBird/pseuds/OffYourBird
Summary: Between juggling a New World Order, a bothersome Council, wayward magic, and – as always – some much with the confusing time travel, there is never a dull moment in Sunnydale for Liz and Elly.This is Season 6 as it exists in the Jumpverse (beginning with A Different Kind of Hell and followed up by A Different Kind of Wedding). Fair warning: if you have not read the previous installments of the Jumpverse, this will not make any sense.





	1. The New World Order

**Author's Note:**

> Several of the warnings in this story (along with the AO rating) are mostly due to a few scenes, which I will provide warnings about ahead of time.
> 
> Please note that this story is a pretty different animal from the other two installments. Liz and Elly are no longer on vacation (and won't even be on the Hellmouth's version of vacation for long). As such, this piece reflects the tone of life on the Hellmouth, and concentrates on what Liz and Elly's presence means for Sunnydale at large. It is modeled like a typical Buffyverse season, Big Bad arc and all. Enjoy!

“You sure our Mr. Collins is done with his beauty sleep?”

Spike snorted, leaning casually against a nearby headstone in Sunnydale Cemetery. He was wearing her favorite of his shirts tonight, a deep purple tee that made her want to shove the vampire against the nearest available surface and have her wicked way with him. From the smirk on Spike’s face, he knew exactly where her thoughts were focused. Of course he did. Impossible, sexy, vampire husband.

“Can hear the wanker shifting about down there. Shouldn’t be much longer.” He threw her a familiar sidelong look. “You know it’s a bloody waste of time.”

“Are you ever  _not_  going to remind of me that, Elly?”

“Prolly not,” he told her, still smirking.

Buffy rolled her eyes at him and shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get lucky one of these days.” She glanced down at the grave they were staking out; a Mr. George Collins, who had died of a heart attack. The accompanying neck trauma was merely from the shocked man digging his nails into his neck. Right. God, who even hired the coroners in this town? Because, really, someone needed to hand out a creative writing award.

“Pet, a newborn’s a newborn. Not a damn thing in their brains except foodlust.”

Buffy raised a brow in his direction. “Was that everything that was in yours?”

There was a slight silence, then, “Bleedin' stubborn woman.”

Buffy grinned at him. “You know you love me.”

“Of course I do.” He gave her a smoldering look from beneath his lashes. “But could be shagging right now instead of chattering to sodding stupid infants.”

“They really don’t chatter much, Elly.”

“Think that’s kind of the issue, yeah?”

He had a point. Unfortunately. She shrugged again. “What’re we at, anyway?”

“Zero and forty-three.”

“Is that including Faith’s count?”

“Do you want it to sound worse?”

“Right. Never mind.” Buffy stared at the motionless ground. “Well, maybe Georgie here will be lucky number forty-four.” She paused. “Or one. Whichever way that’s supposed to go.”

“Can tell you how it’s  _going_ to go, Slayer.”

“Pessimist.”

“Realist, luv,” Spike countered firmly, but he smiled. Despite his grousing, they both knew he was almost as curious as she was about their trials.

The ground beneath them started to shift and Buffy moved back a few paces, reaching down to scoop up the bag of blood that was waiting. So far, they were fifty-fifty on the blood bag, which was… well, it was something. It was after the blood bag was empty where everything went downhill. She backed up another few steps and tossed the bag to Spike in their established signal.  _You’re up._

A hand broke through the surface, followed shortly by an arm, a head, and a second arm, every inch scrabbling wildly. Spike stood over the late Mr. Collins, now a very vamped out fledgling, and held out a hand.

“Need a lift, mate?”

The fledge blinked at him and tried to wipe grave dust from his eyes. “Sure,” he said, sounding startled.

Spike drew the new vampire up out of the dirt and to his feet. George Collins had been a middle-aged man at his time of death, short, and a tad on the heavy side. He sighed in relief as he casually wiped dirt off his burial suit.

“Thank you,” the fledge said said gratefully, lisping around fangs.

Buffy’s brows rose in surprise. Huh. Apparently manners had come through for this one.

“No problem,” Spike replied casually, extending the bag of blood. “S'posing you're a bit peckish, yeah?"

"Starved," the fledge agreed. He took the blood eagerly, draining it in several long gulps. Well, so far so good. When he was done, he glanced around speculatively, his yellow eyes resting on Buffy, nostrils flaring. "Say, you smell good."

Mr. Collins made to step forward, but Spike smoothly blocked his path, sliding into game face with a snarl. "Sorry, mate. She's mine."

The fledge paused at Spike’s dominant stance, frowning, and glanced at Buffy again over the elder vampire’s shoulder. "Sure we can't share? I bet she has enough for both of us."

“How about you come with me instead, yeah? I’ll get you more blood like what you just had. Don’t need to eat people.”

The fledge looked at him in utter confusion. “Why not?”

And there went all hope of using the moral route.

“Look, mate,” Spike said, switching tactics. “You start eating blokes and the Slayer here,” Spike pointed at her, “is going to make your life awfully bloody short. You bag it and you can have a nice long undead life.”

Mr. Collins’s eyes turned to Buffy again, glowing with hunger. A sudden smile brightened his face, looking obscene through his fangs. “How about I eat her instead? Then she won’t be around to kill me.”

Spike sighed and shot Buffy a look. "Think we've got another dud, pet."

"Just try. He's at least lucid."

The fledge blinked at them both. “Lucid? Of course I’m lucid.” A beat. “But I am really hungry still.”

“Bet you are.” Spike paused and Buffy held her breath. This was the part where it all usually unraveled (if it hadn’t already by now). “See, the thing is, the Slayer’s pretty hard to kill. Much more likely you’re going to end up blowing in the breeze. Smarter to follow the rules and stay alive.”

Mr. Collins appeared to think that over. “And not eat people,” he repeated.

“That’s right.”

For moment, the new vampire simply stood there, and Buffy had a moment of hope. But then Mr. Collins shrugged and lunged in Buffy’s direction. “Nah,” he growled, “I like my idea better.”

Buffy dodged the fledge’s clumsy rush, pulling the stake from the back of her waistband as he rounded on her again. With a flick of her wrist, wood met chest, and the late Mr. Collins crumbled to ash.

Buffy shook her head at the dust now coating her feet. “I had high hopes for you, Georgie. You just had to keep screwing my odds, though, didn’t you?” She looked over thoughtfully at a faintly amused Spike. “We should try bringing more blood.”

Her husband leveled a stern gaze on her. “We’re about running our suppliers dry – no pun intended – as is. Can’t afford to be wasting several more pints on each failure. And beside that, if they can’t control the bloodlust without being full, they’ll just go off and eat a bloke first time their belly’s aching.”

Buffy kicked at the dusty grass in annoyance. “I guess so.” She sighed. “I still think catch and release would be an easier sell, but there’s no good way to rein them in with that.”

Spike snorted and strode to her side, taking her hand. “C’mon. I think that’s enough for tonight. Scoobs and family are waiting.”

A smile tugged at her lips. Family. Ellen had gone back to London shortly after the vow renewal, but Thomas was sticking around until university started back up again in September, and the French vampires were here until further notice. Dawn had taken it all in amazing stride, although her immediate ease around Mathilde and Albert left Buffy unsettled.

“You know Mathilde and Albert are exceptions, right?” she had said sternly in the kitchen one night.

Dawn had rolled her eyes emphatically. “Well, duh. I’m not stupid. It’s not like I’m going to start trying to make friends in dark alleys.” She gave Buffy an impish look. “I’ll let  _you_  be the dumb one.”

“Hey!” Buffy had put her hands on her hips, yelling, “Stop corrupting our Bit, Elly!”

Low laughter had filtered in from the living room. “Just telling her the truth, luv!”

It seemed almost counter-intuitive from the outside, that Spike had less faith in the fledglings than Buffy did, but she knew it wasn’t really that at all. He just couldn’t afford to believe; to have any slight doubts that might make him hesitate, that might put her in danger. It had become – even more so since the end of their vacation – his self-designated post: keeping Buffy alive. It was at the very top of his list of swears, and nothing she could do or say would change that.

So she simply squeezed his hand in return. “The Bronze?”

“The only club worth going to in this sorry excuse for a town, innit?”

She threw him a nostalgic smile. “Too bad it’s not like Seventh Street.”

He grinned at her. “Least the bar here is easier to find.”

“Ugh. Stupid Prohibition.” Buffy paused, a strange sense of loss twisting in her. “It’s weird, Elly. For decades after we jumped, so many places reminded me of Sunnydale. And now, everywhere in Sunnydale reminds me of somewhere else.”

Spike sighed. “I know it, pet.”

“Do you think we’ll be here long?”

He looked at her, brow raised. “How long do you  _want_  to be here?”

“I don’t know. Until Dawn goes off to college? Until Faith is okay on her own?” She shrugged. “I guess that’s a few years, at least.”

“At least,” Spike agreed easily.

They walked in comfortable silence then, strolling through the graveyard. She almost forgot they were near Spike’s once-home until Clem stepped out from the crypt and waved merrily at them, loose skin flapping with the eager motion.

“Hi, guys!”

Buffy couldn’t help but smile. Clem was a harmless species and a nice guy; one of the first to befriend them after their return. Looking for a new place (apparently there’d been a bad break-up with his last girlfriend), the demon had immediately warmed to them when Spike mentioned the newly available and fully furnished crypt in Sunnydale Cemetery. “Hi, Clem.”

Spike regarded the other demon equally cordially. “’Lo, Clem. Still on for Thursday, yeah?”

“Of course! And Davies says you owe him three kittens.”

Buffy pursed her lips. “Damnit, Elly. I said no kittens.”

“I’m just letting them go, luv.”

“ _You_  are, but they aren’t,” she said, with a pointed look at Clem.

The demon shrugged sheepishly. “Don’t worry, Slayer. Been cutting back. High in cholesterol, you know?”

Buffy sighed and Spike gave her an amused look. “It’s no different than eating a sodding cow.”

“I know. It’s just…”

“They’re bloody cute?”

She looked at him wryly. “They actually remind me of vampires. Of you. What with the hunting and the purring and the cuddling.”

Spike blinked at her for a long moment before turning back to Clem. “Right. No more kittens. We’ll play for gerbils or summat.”

Clem watched their exchange with an amused smile. “Whatever you say, Spike.” He motioned toward the crypt. “Late night re-runs of Jeopardy are on, if you guys want to come in.”

“Sorry, mate, have other plans tonight.”

Clem nodded graciously. “Next time.” He looked at Buffy. “I’ve got that brand of cheesy popcorn you like.”

A probably absurd level of pleased excitement ran through her. “Oo! Clem, you’re the best.”

Spike rolled his eyes and tugged her back into motion.

“Next Tuesday. You, me, cheesy goodness, and Trebek,” Buffy told the loose-skinned demon over her shoulder.

“See you then, Slayer!”

 

***

 

It was almost laughable that she’d once thought of the Bronze as ‘the place to be.’ The bands were obscenely young, the drinks were poorly made, and  _whoa_  did they need to sweep in the corners of the place. No wonder cockroaches were a regular issue.

Nowadays, she found herself preferring Willy’s dive; at least it was honest about the grossness, and Willy never skimped on the gin. That, and the demons there were a hoot. Buffy was pretty sure she’d given the entire place a heart attack the first time she’d come in after returning. Well… actually,  _that_  visit probably wasn’t all that different from her previous ventures, as it had included no small bit of brawling and some serious pummelage (mostly from Spike as he gleefully informed the population that their down-and-out chipped traitor had been replaced with a very deadly master vampire). No, it was probably actually the second time when things had gotten strange. There wasn’t a single fight the entire evening, and Buffy had chatted up half the tables, outlining her thoughts for a new and improved Sunnydale. She was certain Willy thought she’d been body-swapped.

Sadly, the Scoobies weren’t ready for the reality of Willy’s bar. So the Bronze it was.

“God, I’ve gotten so old, Elly.”

Spike grinned at her as they navigated around a herd of teenyboppers and closed in on the Scoobies gathered near the dance floor, lounging on a collection of low couches and chairs. “Ancient,” he agreed.

“Watch it. I’m pretty sure you’re still about twice my age.”

His smirk only widened. “Guess you’ll always be a pretty young thing to me then, yeah?”

Xander laughed as they reached the back of his chair, obviously catching the end of their conversation. “Nice save, man.”

Spike gave him a pleased look. “Thought so, m'self.”

Xander cleared his throat uncertainly at that, waving to the group. “Hey, guys, our fearless leaders have arrived.” When Faith raised a brow at him from where she was reclining between Mathilde and Thomas, he amended quickly, “Our other leaders.”

Buffy tried to hide her amusement. It had been nearly two months since their return and the Scoobies were trying. They were trying really, adorably hard, in fact. And yet, her prediction that the Scoobies would have less in common with her than Faith had so far rung incredibly true. After some initial cold-shouldering, the other Slayer had settled right back into the group, except this time she was front and center instead of fringe.

Figuring out a way to explain to the Council why exactly they’d liberated Faith from prison had been their first real task back in Sunnydale, and one Buffy knew had caused Giles a real shortage in his scotch collection.

In the end, they used the good old standby of "a Slayer dream told me I needed to.” Even still, it had been a tense several weeks after that, with many terse phone calls that usually ended with, "No, you don't bloody well need to come here. I shall remind you that we just defeated a hell god. I believe we can cope with a single reformed Slayer." A pause. "Yes, well, please remind Quentin that I think just as fondly of him." And once Giles had hung up, "Bloody twats."

As they approached late July, Faith was still technically on "probationary" status, whatever the hell that meant. Faith had snorted derisively when she'd been informed.

"What, does that mean I have to get C's in all of my classes, Teach?"

Buffy had grinned. "Ooh, can I make a course catalog?  _101 Ways to Slay a Vampire, an Intermediate Study_? Or,  _The Basics of Slaying: don't die_?"

Giles had barely contained a smile at that. "Yes, yes. Well, let's at least pretend to humor them, shall we?" And then, a muttered, “I'll send them a report card, if I must." He looked at Buffy thoughtfully. "Speaking of education, my dear. Are you considering re-enrolling at Sunnydale U this fall?"

Buffy knew her face must have been incredulous at best. "Giles, you do remember that I haven't been to college in a hundred and twenty years, right?"

"Ah. Quite. My apologies, sometimes I still... forget."

Buffy shrugged. "I understand." She laughed. "I forget too, except it's Sunnydale things on my end. I'm pretty sure I've totally freaked Mrs. Henkley across the street, as I honestly didn't remember know who she was when she came to talk last week."

"I'm telling you, B, play the amnesiac card, it'll be fun."

"It's tempting some days." Her mouth twisted. "But with my luck, something Hellmouthy would happen and I'd actually become one. Really not interested in being Tempting Fate Girl."

And now here at the Bronze, some things were still entirely unfamiliar or unrecognized. She wondered when it would change. Would there be a moment, like a switch flipping, where being here would stop feeling like any other random city? Or was it going to happen so gradually she probably wouldn’t even notice? And still, there was some defiant part of her that kind of hoped it wouldn’t change at all. Then she wouldn’t feel sorry for leaving, in some yet-to-be determined number of years.

Buffy nodded companionably at Faith in greeting. “Any luck on your end tonight?”

The other Slayer shrugged. “Just some dust. You?”

“Same.” Buffy sighed. “I thought we might’ve had one there for a minute, but… nada.”

Albert chuckled from a chair. “Général, is amusing, this venture. But les enfants are… unlikely.”

Spike snorted. “So I keep telling her.”

Buffy flung up her hands. “Hey, if somebody has a better idea, I’m still waiting to hear it.”

Willow looked up from her chair where she was snuggling with Tara. Her mouth twisted thoughtfully. “I could always re-ensoul them.”

The entire group lapsed into abrupt silence. Willow glanced around in surprise, her face drawing up in a nervous frown. “Or not,” she added quickly. “Nope. No soulage here. Didn’t say a word!”

"It's a nice offer, Wil, but it kind of defeats the purpose," Buffy said smoothly. "If Angel is any indicator, a soul is only a leash. We don't need a town full of caged animals waiting to get out. We need a functional society." She sighed. "It's possible. I know it is. I just don't know  _how_  yet."

Anya sat up from her spot on the couch next to Thomas, eyes bright. "Well, you're the Masters of Sunnydale, right?"

Spike blinked at her. "Guess so," he said slowly. "Don’t think anyone officially took on my claim of the territory." He glanced at Buffy. "And Buffy'd be one by virtue of being my mate."

Buffy wrinkled her nose. "Master? Can't I be a Mistress?"

Xander choked on his drink.

Thomas laughed. "I think that has some particular connotations, Auntie."

"Particularly in the sexual domination community," Anya added matter-of-factly.

“No more than Master,” Buffy retorted, then paused as the group eyed her speculatively. "Right. Never mind." She carefully ignored her husband's grin. God, if the Scoobies only knew what their Slayer had gotten into over the years. "Master-y it is."

“Anyway,” Anya continued, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, “as the Masters, you could require a blood bond from every new fledgling.”

Buffy frowned. “A blood bond?” She glanced at Spike. “What does that mean?”

Spike pursed his lips. “It’s a bit like a minion link. Creates a system of power in vamp communities where you have minions you didn’t make.”

“Huh. Think it’d work with me? Not a vampire, after all. Even if I do have the demon.”

“Not sure.” He frowned deeply. “But it’d require that we’re connected to them.” He looked at Buffy solemnly, and she read the seriousness he was trying to convey. “The whole bloody lot of them, pet. Can’t be undone.”

“Would be quite the headache,” Mathilde added. “So many enfants. They are needy.”

“Hmm.” Buffy sighed, leaning against the back of Xander’s chair. “Okay, so we’ll make that Plan B. Maybe Plan C, if something else less with the eternal bondiness comes to mind.”

Faith raised her brow. “How long are we keeping with Plan A?”

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it? Theoretically, Buffy knew she could keep trying until the end of days. There was time aplenty for an immortal, after all. And if  _that_  wasn't a pile of strange atop strange, she wasn't sure what was. Once, time had been her ultimate foe, ticking down like some impossible doomsday device, counting all the waning seconds left in her short Slayer life. Now it stretched around her in both directions, a constant companion to every memory and choice and bit of her that had once been and might be.

“Until we get tired of trying?” she suggested at last.

Her sister Slayer nodded. “No problem, B.”

Tara smiled up at Buffy with clear encouragement. “I’m s-sure you’ll get one soon, Buffy.”

“Not holding my breath,” Spike muttered.

Thomas grinned. “At least you’re never bored, Uncle.” He gave Tara a conspiratorial look. “He gets rather twitchy when he’s bored. We had a bloody awful snowstorm in London when I was a lad, and Mum thought he was going to pace a hole in the floor.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Longest two days of my life.”

Tara giggled. “You got that much snow in the city, really?”

Spike heaved an aggrieved sigh. “No, we bloody well didn’t! It was less than a foot, and the whole blasted place just shut down.”

Xander cracked a grin. “Traumatic experience, huh?”

“For everyone involved,” Buffy said dryly.

"You could always use chains," Anya said brightly. When everyone just stared at her, she huffed in annoyance. "You know, chains? Like how Spike was chained up in Giles's bathtub? He was bored, but he couldn't pace. Ergo, no holes in the floor. Less trauma for everyone."

"Except the vampire chained in the bathtub," Spike growled.

Thomas and the French vampires stared at him incredulously.

"Chained to the bathtub?" Albert repeated, wonderingly. "Pourquoi?"  _Why?_

Buffy sighed. "It was a long time ago. And a mistake."

Spike regarded her with surprise. "Yeah?"

"Well, of course it was, Elly."

He smiled a bit sheepishly. “You never said, luv.”

Buffy blinked. Sometimes, after everything they’d been through and the century of memories they’d made, she forgot things like that still mattered. That their relationship had started on such unequal footing. That she’d humiliated him and trussed him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. That she’d treated him worse than a vampire she intended to kill. Gently, purposefully, she took her husband’s hands and stared into his curious blue eyes. “I’m sorry for all of that, William. Truly.”

Spike leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Thanks, pet,” he said softly, his voice a whisper against her skin.

Xander cleared his throat, and the couple turned to him questioningly. His face turned slightly red under their scrutiny. “I’m sorry, too.” He winced. “I thought it was funny, at the time, when you tried to off yourself.”

Buffy gasped. “When you  _what_?!”

Spike threw the other man an irritated look. “Probably could have kept that one to yourself, Harris.” His expression softened. “Ta, though.”

“Yeah. No problem,” Xander mumbled, turning back to his drink, carefully avoiding Buffy’s glare.

She rounded on her husband. “We are  _so_  talking about this later.”

“For chrissake, it happened a century ago, luv.”

Something terrified was trembling in her, black and dark and eviscerating.  _You’re being irrational, Buffy. Rein it in_ , she told herself sternly. She took a deep breath.

“’Sides, pretty sure you would have cheered me on, at the time. Seem to recall you sort of did.”

Oh god, had she? A sick feeling made a home in the pit of her stomach. She could know down in the very center of her being that she wasn’t  _that_ Buffy anymore, but it didn’t change the fact that she had been, once. There had been a thick curtain marked “Messy and confusing: look at your own peril” hanging up during her previous stint in town – a curtain she had tried to not even so much as look at, if it could at all be helped (although Spike had always made the damn thing flutter). Her careful ignorance had been a mistake of youth. And fear. The Buffy of now was quite determined to rip the damn curtain entirely off the rod. And probably dismantle the rod, too, just for good measure.

At least in that way, Sunnydale was certainly different from anywhere else they’d lived. Nowhere else dug up every bit of her past idiocies and paraded them in front of her nose quite like Sunnydale did. It made her uneasy, to wonder what might have been if not for Glory’s portal. If not for Charles, and London, and Halfrek’s demonic sense of humor.

“I probably did,” Buffy managed to reply, finally. She didn’t say anything else, but Spike moved closer to her, his shoulder pressed up against hers, and she slumped against him gratefully.

Thomas and the French vampires exchanged glances.

“Something tells me,” Thomas said slowly, “that this Sunnydale isn’t at all like it was before.”

Faith laughed out loud at that. “Seriously, T, you have no idea.”


	2. Sunnydale-at-Large: The New World Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The format of all Sunnydale-at-Large chapters will be various viewpoints of people/creatures around Sunnydale. Each *** denotes a change in viewpoint. Cheers!

Willy wasn't sure what had gone down with the hell god that'd been roaming around several months back, but whatever it was, it had been weird. And it had apparently directly affected the Slayer and Spike, who now seemed to be… together?

He’d almost choked on his tongue when the Slayer came into his bar one night, wearing her hair up in some cheerleader-y ponytail and flashing a matching pair of bite marks for the whole world to see. One set looked years old – probably from her first vampire boyfriend. Even with that shiny vamp soul of his, Willy didn’t put it past Angel to have taken a bite or two out of the girl. Probably where she’d gotten the taste. The other side was obviously well used, and – based on the entirely disturbing amount of necking that went on between the two blondes – it wasn’t hard to imagine who that second set belonged to. It looked like Spike had the ultimate meal ticket. Even though none of it made a single lick of sense.

Although, if the sudden wedding rings were any indication, Spike was not only getting some Slayer on the regular, he had also tied the girl down (or, more likely,  _he’d_  gotten tied down). As if that wasn’t enough on the Strange Express, Spike himself seemed… off. Willy was used to the cocky asshole who vacillated between bad-tempered and frighteningly gregarious, depending on the jukebox selection and the number of whisky shots that had disappeared. He didn’t even know what to make of this Spike, who was bafflingly even-keeled. Well, as even-keeled as Spike could ever foreseeably get. The vampire's once-strong tendency to leave empty spaces behind the bar where whisky bottles once sat hadn’t happened since whatever in god’s name had gone down in May. And, most eerily, Spike always paid for his drinks now. And tipped.

The Slayer was just as confusing. Where she’d once been full of righteous sass and a kind of steely maturity that spoke of a girl forced into adulthood way too early, she now seemed just plain  _older_ , as if she’d lived a hundred years overnight (and taken some Xanax for good measure). And that didn’t even get him started on her complete change-about regarding the demon community…

The strangeness of those two was pretty much seared into Willy’s brain when he sidled over to the grocery store one day to grab more Lysol wipes (like any self-respecting demon bar owner). He almost had a heart attack when he heard the Slayer and Spike in the next aisle over, arguing about (of all things) paper plates.

"Get the lil ones with the decorated rims, yeah?"

Willy could almost see the Slayer’s eye roll. “We are not buying fancy paper plates just so you can stub out cigarette butts on them for poker night."

There was an offended pause, then, "I'll be putting snacks in them, too."

"Then we'll get the plain ones. They're service-able."

"And ugly, pet."

"You really think Clem and the guys are going to care, Elly?"

Willy blinked. Yet another weird thing that had started this summer. The Slayer called Spike  _Elly_. And weirdest of all, the vampire didn't appear to mind. Willy was often tempted to ask about the change in address, but he had a pretty bad feeling it would result in the loss of a limb or two, if the last demon to ask about it was anything to tell by.

"I promise only gerbils for the game, alright?"

A pause.

"Fancy plates it is," the Slayer declared cheerily, followed by the sound of several footsteps moving on. Willy just stood there for a long moment, nonplussed. Gerbils? He couldn’t even begin to fathom what gerbils had to do with anything. And he wasn’t really sure he wanted to know.

Of course, his grocery trip only got weirder from there. He was standing in the checkout line, looking out into the parking lot to pass the wait, when, who else should he have seen but the Slayer and Spike. They were loading up the vampire's beat-up Desoto with groceries. In the middle of the afternoon.  _In full sunlight._

Willy stared at them until they got into Spike’s car and drove away, leaving him shaking his head in disbelief.

Whatever spell had taken hold of those two was something else. But, thankfully, it seemed to be working in his favor this time. These days, the Slayer was bringing in business instead of scaring it away, and she'd somehow acquired a taste for gin martinis (and actually complimented him on his recipe). So Willy just shrugged and paused a minute before heading back to the cleaning supplies aisle, tumbling a couple extra cases of Lysol wipes into his cart. Slayer seemed to like the bar clean.

 

***

 

Buffy lay in his arms, naked and asleep, the light of the moon brushing her face through the open window. Her chest was rising faintly with each breath, making her perky tits wave just so. It was enough to make him almost break out in bloody poetry. Not that Buffy ever minded these days, to Spike’s somewhat great embarrassment. Christ, his self from Sunnydale a century ago would have staked himself if he’d known what kind of ponce he’d turn into. He paused. Well, depending on the year. His self from the year with Glory would’ve about walked into the sun if it meant a chance to see the Slayer in her skivvies. A grin took him then. Bloody hell. His self from then wouldn’t have even dared believe the things his Buffy had done with him over the years.

Or the things she’d allowed him to do. Spike’s grin faded as his eyes followed the pale curve of her neck, as lovely and edible as the day he married her. He could happily watch her for hours, when sleep was far away, on nights like tonight. Even after a century, sometimes the sunless hours called to him, a creature who was only meant for the down and dark. And Buffy, his golden goddess, had brought him into the sun. He’d worried, throughout the years, that he’d started to bring her down instead, into the murk and muck and grey. But wherever she went, she simply lit up the space, flooding everything with her radiance. She’d tell him it was his presence that let her do it, of course. Which was a complete load of bollocks. But she always said it in low tones of incredible love, the likes of which still made him feel bloody invincible. So he just kissed her, and didn’t argue.

He felt a twinned prickling from downstairs, followed by the closing sound of the front door, as Mathilde and Albert returned from the hunt and slid into the basement. After so long, their signatures were more familiar to him now than any other excepting Buffy’s. He snorted softly. Cripes, who’d have thought the Slayer would be the reason he’d have a real vampire family again? A bloody century, and she still never stopped surprising him. Surprised him nearly daily, even. Just last week, right after Albert and Mathilde had come in for the night, Buffy had turned in his arms from their positioning on the couch and eyed him curiously, in that way of hers that always meant the gears were turning madly.

“You’ve never asked.”

And, of course, the conversation always started with something incredibly bleeding vague. Annoying chit never did learn how to make a proper opening statement. “Asked what, luv?”

“If it would be alright to do like they do – catch and release.”

Spike knew he’d gone stiff as a board beneath her. Once, he’d have been sure that any kind of statement like that was just  _made_  so she could be angry with him. Now, he knew it for honesty, which was bloody petrifying.

“Never cared to,” he replied carefully.

And there was the expected raised brow. “Cared to what? Ask? Do it?”

“Both.”

“William…”

Bugger. To this day he wasn’t sure she knew exactly what hearing his name really did to him. It wasn’t like the name he’d given himself, and it wasn’t even the name she’d given him (which he treasured down to the depths of his non-soul, even if it was the most wankerish thing he’d ever heard in his life). No, this was  _his_  name, his from the moment he took a breath and his long after it’d stopped. The man’s name. He’d hated it once. Used it only as a title in a way a vampire could stomach, with a two-fingered salute to the bastards who coined it and who later made it true: “William the Bloody.” It never meant that to Buffy, though. When she said it, it was to the man. And the monster. As if they were really the same creature after all.

He sighed. “Don’t care to do it, alright? Know you’d let me, if I wanted.”

Now he’d actually surprised her. “You don’t want to? Really?” A pause. “You can’t tell me you don’t miss it.”

He smirked at her, eyeing her neck. “Pretty sure I get my fill of biting in, pet.”

She rolled her eyes. It was a miracle the things had never run right out of her head, with as much as she did it. “That’s not what I mean. It’s not the same, and we both know it.” A pointed look. “You made it very clear to me after the war how very much that’s not the same.”

Even now, he twitched uneasily, and she soothed him with a touch. “William,” she said again, in a tone that was equal parts adoring and unyielding. (How did she even manage that? It was a Slayer trait, he was sure.) “Why?”

He pursed his lips. “It’s not the same. But even so, still fills a bloke up. Barely need the pig swill these days.” At her continued stern look, he huffed. “Would snack on the civilians if I needed to. Just lost the taste.”

“Food isn’t exactly something you lose a taste for, Elly.” Buffy’s gaze turned inward for a moment, and he knew she was lost in memory. “Neither is the hunt.”

“We hunt plenty.”

Annoyance flashed in her eyes. “Why are you giving me this crap?”

“It’s not crap! Chrissake, woman,” he growled at her, nostrils flaring. Bloody hell, he thought, blinking his eyes shut and taking a deep breath. Infuriating bint. “Look,” he said finally, “sure, all the warm bodies with the lovely pulses hanging about are right tempting.”

“But?”

God, he was such a ponce. “But they’re all too much like our Bits.”

Buffy just blinked at him. “Our Bits? What, you mean, that they’re human?”

“How many of our family members have we watched over the years, Slayer? I’ve seen almost as much family born and dead in the last century as I ever drained dry. And loved them all.”

Buffy’s face softened into such an expression of complete wonder that he felt the sudden urge to stalk off and regain some shred of his lost masculinity at the expense of the nearest demon, or bottle of whisky. But he just sat instead. Bloody hell, he was so utterly fucked these days. If only he really cared.

“You never cease to surprise me, Elly,” she said softly, nuzzling into his neck.

Now in bed, listening to the steady, slow heartbeat of his love as she slept, he shook his head, closing his eyes to the night.  _Least I’m in good company, I s’pose._

 

***

 

“Willow, sweetie?” Tara peeked into their bedroom. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us? We’re going to put on  _Encino Man_.” She shook her head with a small smile. "Xander's choice, of course."

Willow glanced up from her position all akimbo in the middle of their bed, a half dozen potential incantations scattering from her brain. “Huh? Oh, um, no thanks.”  _Yikes-ah, way to make your girlfriend feel unwanted, Will-gill._ She smiled eagerly at Tara to take the sting from her words. “I’m so close.”

Tara slid further into the room, shutting the door behind her. It was a firm move for her lover, something that had been coming to the forefront with unexpected frequency in the last couple of months. “Willow, honey, you’re sure this research couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” A pause, as a frown drew down Tara’s face. “You’re not… you’re not thinking of actually  _doing_  this spell, are you?”

Willow shifted uneasily.  _Only if I can figure it out. Just to see._  “No, of course not. I just want to know if it can be done.”

Tara regarded her for a short moment, then strode over and kissed the top of Willow’s head, the smell of her light perfume filling Willow’s nose with heady familiarity. “You’re so cute when you’re caught up in something.” She retreated back to the door, a pointed look on her face. “Don’t be still caught up when the movie’s over though, okay?”

Willow felt heat flood through her. “No more read-y Willow,” she promised. “Sexy Willow only.”

Tara giggled. “I’ll hold you to that.” And with a wink, she retreated back into the living room, shutting the door behind her.

Willow paused, listening to the soft murmur of Tara explaining her absence. From the sounds of it, the whole rest of what Xander called the “New Scoobies” were gathered there: Xander, Tara, Anya, and Thomas. From the low laugh, it also sounded like Faith had made an appearance. The New Scoobies’ Slayer.

The group dynamic was almost unrecognizable anymore. Thomas’s presence, in particular, had caused a stir. He was stupidly impossible to dislike and all the Scoobies had been utterly charmed by the young Brit. In fact, if Willow wasn’t 120% certain her girlfriend didn’t like boy parts, she would have been kind of worried. As it was, she wouldn’t have wanted to be in Xander’s shoes. Her oldest friend seemed torn between wary jealousy over the blossoming friendship between Thomas and Anya, and immense delight over the new male addition to the group.

Faith herself was a whole ‘nother kettle of mackerel. Gone was the "Woo, look at me being all evil-y" Slayer and here instead was a reformed woman with a wicked sense of humor and a sort of shocking listening ability. She was still slut-terific, though, and Willow had the distinct feeling Thomas had first-hand knowledge of that. (Was he a man-slut? Guy-slut?) But despite that, everyone seemed mostly at ease with the brunette Slayer, and even Xander was being way less wary of her than she probably deserved. But then, without much Buffy-ness, the position of "Slayer/Scooby Friend" was in need of filling. And Faith was around.

She sighed. Everything had gone all flippy, and now nothing was like it was supposed to be. This entire summer had about run Willow’s limited patience into the ground.

It didn’t help that she and Tara were living at Xander’s place for the summer, with the dorms being closed. Anya had thrown a fit, demanding that they pay rent, although Xander had talked her down to just the utilities. It was by far the best (and, most importantly, cheapest) summer option for the two witches, even if hearing nighttime noises from the master bedroom often made them regret it. Willow was very entirely certain Xander didn’t need to moan so loudly. It had been a while, but she still remembered those parts. Although maybe Oz’s soft demeanor had bled over into the bedroom too.

Willow sighed, casting her thoughts away from her ex-boyfriend. She had Tara now, and nothing could really compare. And Tara was the entire reason she wasn’t just a puddle of disaster-y Willow over the entire Glory portal fiasco, and what it had done to her once-best friend.

Willow understood. Really, she did. It would have been like if her preschool best friend (a nice girl named Shannon who moved to Japan in the fifth grade) had suddenly shown up on her doorstep. Willow wouldn’t have a clue about what to say to her, besides, “Hey! We both got old.” And it made sense, really it did. Except… that meant Willow was the preschool best friend in this scenario. And that hurt. She’d gotten left behind without even a chance to follow.

She sighed and bent over her books again. It seemed pointless to dwell on it, even if it was all she really wanted to think about. So she thought about the half-scribbled page in front of her instead. Magic, she could do. And if she was lucky, she’d accomplish something that was apparently undo-able. So you couldn't travel to the future, huh? Bunch of lazy pants, whoever decided that. They’d obviously never met Willow Rosenberg. Smiling, she bent back over her work.


	3. A Different Kind of Sunnyhell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summer is ending... hold on to your seats.

It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment – she might’ve blinked – but one second Buffy was slicing through a Fyarl’s throat with a silver sword, Spike at her back, and the next everything shivered, like static on an old TV, and she was in an alleyway, straddling Spike on the ground.

She blinked, disoriented, her fingers mysteriously holding Spike’s shirt in a death grip (and had he been wearing that a moment before? It didn’t look right at all).

“What the–” Buffy stared down at him, aghast. “ _Oh my god_ , Elly.”

Something had beaten her husband to a pulp. Both eyes were nearly swollen shut and there was a long line of blood spilling down a slice in one cheek and from his nose. And, weirdly, his hair looked shorter with the way the shadows were hitting it.

“You didn’t leave then. Tried… thought you had,” Spike said shakily, in a tone she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard from him before.

Buffy gaped at him for a moment, speechless. Leave him? She’d never leave him. Nothing was making sense. She glanced around desperately. God, she had ended up in yet another alleyway at night without knowing how she had gotten there. At least Spike was still with her, even if he was mysteriously injured and incoherent. That had kind of been her role last time; she supposed turn about was fair play. She ran a cautious hand up Spike’s chest. Maybe one of the Fyarl had gotten him at the last moment.

“Elly, do you think you can move?”

Spike paused, peering at her blearily. “Buffy?” His voice was strangely uncertain.

“Yes, it’s me,” she said softly, gently brushing the lapels of his duster. She frowned at his unfamiliar shirt again. “Do you think you can stand if I get up?”

Spike blatantly hesitated this time. “Does… does this mean you’re not going to give yourself up?”

Buffy blinked. “Huh?” She shook her head. “Elly, I have no idea what you’re talking about. But we have to get you out of here, you’re a wreck.”

There was a gasping bit of laughter from her vampire, disbelieving and relieved. “It helped. I don’t bloody care.”

“I’m not sure that getting pummeled by a Fyarl is exactly high up on the helping scale, but I’ll take your word for it,” Buffy told him with a small smile, shaking her head. She slid off his chest, kneeling to pull his arm over her shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

Spike took her aid silently, leaning heavily on her as she pulled them both to their feet. She glanced around, bemused, at last recognizing their location. They were in the alleyway by the Sunnydale police station.  _Well, at least we’re still in the right city this time. And century. I think._

“How in the world did we end up here?” she murmured. She stopped abruptly, a very unpleasant memory of Brazil in 1962 coming back to her. Trying to take on a pack of sonsoo demons while time rippled had been one of the most irritating experiences of the decade. She’d found herself across a river without knowing how she got there, and nearly lost a leg to the stupid doglike demons before she realized their master was the one making trouble. Watching Spike rip off the time manipulator’s head had been terribly satisfying. “I think we missed a Rwasundi demon tonight.”

Spike tilted his head, inhaling sharply. “Think you’re right. See? Not your fault.”

“Didn’t think it was,” Buffy told him, surprise filling her. Something was very off. Biting her lip, she steered them out of the alleyway and toward home.

It was only as they left the shelter of the buildings that Buffy realized she was chilly. The night had been hot before, almost bitterly so, and now it was strangely breezy.

“God, it feels like January all of a sudden.”

Spike snorted beside her. “Guess that makes right sense, considering it is, pet.”

Buffy halted them mid-step. “What?”

Spike glanced at her curiously. “You alright, Slayer?” He paused, then said very quietly, “Mind you, not complaining, but s’not like you to do this.”

Buffy frowned. “Do what?”

“Take me to get patched up.” He chuckled lowly. “Even if you were the one doing the beating.”

Buffy searched her vampire’s face, unease building in her stomach like a wriggling fire. “Elly, you’re starting to worry me.”

Spike frowned at her. “What’s that you’re calling me, now? Thought I just heard wrong before, but I didn’t, did I?”

Buffy’s unease turned into full-out panic and she glanced over at Spike’s left hand for the first time. “William,” she said breathlessly, “where’s your ring?”

Spike’s brows furrowed as he pulled away to sway uneasily on his feet and held both hands out to her, each glinting with several silver rings. Rings she hadn’t seen him wear in a century. “Which one you mean, Slayer?”

Buffy’s heart crashed through her feet as everything clicked into horrible place _. Oh god. The shirt. The hair. The tone._  “You’re not mine,” she whispered.

Spike flinched at that. “You won’t let me be,” he said lowly, jaw clenched.

Buffy shook her head violently. “No, that’s…  _You’re not Elly_.” She backed up a step, everything in her chest pounding, her head feeling so lightheaded she thought she might pass out. The whole world was tilting, sending her sideways. “Oh god, where am I?”  _Elly, where are you?_  And then she was on the ground, gasping, choking on air. “Oh god oh god oh god.”

And in the weirdest parody of a century ago, where she kneeled in a bustled gown, unknowingly newly immortal, Spike was here again, crouching next to her, a tentative hand brushing her back.

“Breathe, pet. Just breathe.”

The familiar words only made it worse, and Buffy thought she might suffocate, her lungs turned useless, everything inside her frozen in agony and heartache.  _Elly._  Blindly, she turned and pulled herself into the vampire’s arms beside her and clung to him, shaking unbearably.

“Bloody hell,” this Spike murmured. “Feels like you’re going into shock, Slayer.” And then cool hands were rubbing up and down her arms, firmly, almost roughly, trying to shake her body into functioning. And then all at once he stopped.

“Buffy… where’s your coat?”

Buffy shuddered against him, shaking her head.

After a moment of uncertain silence, Spike started rubbing her again. “Never mind. We’ll find it tomorrow, wherever it went off to.”

She wasn’t sure how long the two of them sat, nearly sprawled on the ground, before she finally felt like she could move. Once, she thought she felt a twinge on the back of her neck that signaled  _Slayer_ , but it was come and gone before she could really bring herself to care.

“Spike,” she managed finally, hoarsely, from her position in the beaten vampire’s arms.

“Yeah, pet?”

“What happened, right before I was sitting on you?”

“What?”

“What happened.”

There was a long pause. “Not sure what you’re getting at.”

Buffy buried herself further into the vampire’s chest, wincing at the unfamiliar fabric. Part of her wanted to run far, far away from this vampire who was her husband but wasn’t. The other part wanted to glue him to her side. What if – somehow – this was the only Spike she had left? “Pretend I’ve gone completely amnesiac woman. Tell me what happened.”

Spike’s breath turned ragged. “Slayer…”

“Please.”

After a long space of quiet – god, he reminded her so much of Elly a hundred years ago – he finally said, “You wanted to turn yourself in because you thought you killed a girl. I tried to stop you. You… said some things.”

“What things?”

“Things about me,” was the even reply, stilted. It leaked pain in every syllable. Then Spike added quietly, “Don’t think you meant it. I mean, maybe you did. But either way, it helped, yeah? Don’t rightly care.”

Buffy swallowed harshly. God, none of this made sense. “Was that all?”

More silence, then, “You used your fists. You were so hurt, luv. Didn’t mind, really. Bit of blood and I’ll be right as rain.”

Buffy froze, her body turning to ice. “ _I’m_  the one who beat you?”

Spike started rubbing her arms again as she stiffened. “No, no, don’t go into shock again, Slayer.” He made a small sound in his throat. “You got up and left then. Or, I thought you did. But then you were on me again.”

Buffy clenched her hands tight against her chest, keeping her left hand close to her heart where she could feel the twin presences of her engagement and wedding ring, an anchor in this insanity.

“Spike,” she said finally, “what’s the date today?”

Hands gripped her shoulders firmly then, tried to pull her away from his chest, but she wouldn’t let him. “Something’s wrong,” he said flatly.

“The date, Spike.”

“It’s bloody January 09.”

“What year.”

“Slayer, what in god’s name is–”

“ _The year_ ,” Buffy repeated again, more firmly.

A helpless sigh. “It’s 2002, pet.”

Buffy’s stomach filled with lead. She was exactly five months in the future. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Not an exact number like that. But there was no way this was her future. This wasn’t her Spike, couldn’t be her Sunnydale. She had to get home.

Buffy struggled to her feet suddenly, lifting a very bemused Spike with her, taking his weight again and looping an arm around his waist. “Let’s get you home.”

“Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what this is all about?”

“I’ll let you know when I do,” she said softly. She glanced over at the vampire’s broken face. God, some version of her had beaten the love of her life into  _that_. It made her feel physically ill. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for, Slayer,” was Spike’s surprised reply.

Buffy narrowed her eyes and continued steering them toward Revello Drive. “Actually, I think there’s a lot,” she said harshly. Whatever Buffy had done this needed a severe attitude adjustment.

They were halfway home when Spike stopped them outright. “Slayer. We’re going the wrong way.”

Buffy frowned. She wasn’t sure what Sunnydale this was, but so far all the streets looked the same. “Not unless Revello moved and no one told me.”

There was a short intake of breath. “You’re… you’re taking me to your home?”

Her grip around him tightened as her heart clenched terribly. “You’re still in a crypt here, aren’t you?”

“Was when you came in the other day, wasn’t I?” A brief silence. “And when you didn’t.”

“Huh?”

“Could feel you in the cemetery. Knew you were right outside my door. But when I–” Spike cut off suddenly, as if afraid that he’d revealed too much. Too much about what, though, she had no idea.

“Spike…” Buffy paused. “I’m about to say something crazy, okay?”

The vampire eyed her warily. “Alright.”

“I think we’ll know this a bit better once we get to Revello, but I’m not your Buffy. Right before I was sitting on you, I was in Restfield Cemetery in August 2001 with my Spike, fighting Fyarl demons.”

Spike just stared at her. Well, as well as he could stare with two mostly swollen shut eyes. “What.”

Buffy sighed and drew one of his hands up to her neck, placing his fingers on her bite marks. She placed the other on her left hand, where he could feel her rings. “Feel those? The marks are yours… well, Elly’s. The rings, too, are from him. Spike and I are married, where I come from. When I ended up in the alley, I thought you were him, but… you’re not.” She swallowed heavily, trying to keep the coursing panic from overtaking her again.  _Elly, where are you?_

Spike’s fingers trembled against her skin, sending sudden jolts of pleasure through her as he stroked the bite scars. “Bloody hell. You’re not my Buffy?”

“If she did this to you,” Buffy waved at his face, “I’m sincerely glad I’m not.”

Spike gaped at her. “What… what are you doing here then?”

“I have no idea. But I intend to find out.” She pulled the vampire back against her and started them into motion again. “Come on. Let’s get you fixed up. And then we’ll figure this out.”

Spike didn’t say anything for several minutes, then, “So we’re married, where you’re from?”

“Yep. Been married for a long time.”

“And this Spike… you call him  _Elly_?”

Buffy bit her lip so hard she was sure it was bleeding. “I do.”

Another long silence, then a small gasp. “Ellsworth. Bloody fuck.”

Buffy couldn’t help but laugh. “When Charles spilled the beans, I couldn’t help but call you that because it made you so furious. And now… now it’s just yours.”

“Charles?”

“Charles Delancey.”

Spike made a small distressed sound. “How do you know about Charlie Delancey?”

“Elly and I got thrown back in time a while ago.”

“You know this all sounds completely sack of hammers, right, Slayer?”

Buffy threw him a look. “I’m pretty sure I can tell you more about yourself than you can imagine, William.”

A snort. “Try me.”

“I know you like Walt Whitman and adore Percy Shelley. I know you loved your mother so much you turned her because you thought it would save her. I know you snore in your sleep sometimes even though you shouldn’t even breathe. I know the exact way your hair curls upward when you forget to comb it.” She paused, her throat growing tight. “I know how to kiss your neck in just the way that makes you rip off my clothes. I know how you like your tea – two teabags, with the kettle just under boiling. And I know–” Buffy stopped, everything in her filling with agony.  _I know exactly how much I love you, which is with every fiber of my being._

Spike, beside her, just stared. “Bloody hell,” he said finally, a whisper.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Bloody hell, indeed.” Then she tugged them into motion again.


	4. Sunnydale-at-Large: A Different Kind of Sunnyhell

Buffy was dead. No. This Spike’s Buffy was dead. This Spike’s Buffy had been dead ever since she took a nosedive off Hell Bitch’s tower. Alone.  _His_  Buffy was… somewhere. And he was going to get back to her if it was the last thing he did. It was the only thought that staved off the intense need to dust, a writhing ache that burned his insides with cold. It turned out he could still get cold, after all. Maybe he’d been too many years in the sun.

Spike glanced over at his counterpart. Other!Spike stood stoically by the Slayer’s grave, wearied and worn. It had been 233 days since his Buffy died, and the vampire was still counting, held to life by what he’d sworn to protect. It amazed Spike almost to recall it, because he knew his Buffy would never ask that of him these days. Not now, when they were each other’s everything.

Other!Spike glanced over at him, gaze narrow. “There’s a world where I didn’t fail, then?”

Spike regarded his other self steadily. Was it better to lie to the bloke? No, he needed that. Needed to know he’d mattered somewhere, done something cleverer or better or faster. “Yeah, mate. There’s a world where you saved her.”

“Good.”

A beat of silence.

“Let’s go find Red.”

 

***

 

Giles was in a flat he didn’t recognize. Inevitably, it was filled with his things, which made absolutely no sense at all. Gone was the pen in his hand, replaced with a tumbler of scotch. He regarded it steadily for a long moment before throwing the whole thing back. Convenient, that had been.

It took him several moments of rooting about to find a newspaper. January 09, 2002. And he was in Bath, England of all places. Sighing, Giles steadily cleaned his glasses.

“Bloody Hellmouth,” he muttered. Why evil always seemed inclined toward the middle of the week, he was never quite certain. It struck him that perhaps even the Hellmouth appreciated a weekend. Blast, what was in that scotch? Or perhaps he simply hadn’t drunk enough. So he poured himself another and surveyed the room.

His Watcher diaries lay in a nearby bookshelf, only a single slim volume. Well, that was entirely odd. There should have been a half dozen. The flat he could forgive, the lack of proper documentation he could not.

It was only when he started to flip through the diary that he heard a strange wooshing sound, like that of the loo being flushed, and another man stepped into the room.

The two Gileses regarded each other with equal shock for a long moment.

“I say, you’ve quite slacked off,” Giles said finally, holding up the single diary.

 

***

 

Faith eyed her other self uneasily, debating whether it was better to run like a bat out of hell, or just take the bitch down.

“So Sunnyhell is gone, huh?”

Other!Faith waggled her brows, grinning viciously. “Just a grease stain in the history books. Daddy-o got tired of it after a while. The human buffet quality went downhill. You know how those things go.”

“Right.” Faith pulled herself to her feet, carefully never letting the other woman out of her sight. They were in some kind of luxury penthouse and, based on the several inches of snow outside, it was neither August nor California here.

“Damn, it’s so wicked to have another self,” Other!Faith said conversationally, reclining languidly in her chair, feet thrown up on the arm. “Another Slayer again, and without all that do-gooder crap.”

Faith paused in her survey of the snow. “Buffy’s dead here?”

Other!Faith laughed lowly, delight flashing in her dark eyes. “B was snake snack numero uno.” She paused. “The uptight Joan of Arc still kicking in your world?”

Faith glanced around, looking for an easy weapon. Luckily, this Faith seemed positively obsessed with them. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “Still kicking.”

 

***

 

“Wait. Wait. Wait. I’m married to  _Cordelia_?”

Cordelia pursed her lips at him, rolling her eyes. “God, Xander. Do you have to sound so surprised?”

Other!Xander raised a brow at him, patting Cordy’s arm comfortingly. “I’m sure it’s just because it’s so different, sweetheart.”

Xander cleared his throat loudly, nodding slowly. He was at the Harris’s home in L.A., sitting at their kitchen table. The signature marks of Cordelia-decorating were everywhere. He was pretty sure touching something here would cost him like a thousand dollars. “Yeah, it’s that.” He shifted uneasily, taking a swig of the beer Other!Xander had given him. “So… got a phone around here? I think this might be a Willowy-type issue.”

Cordelia and Other!Xander exchanged looks. “Might be kind of hard,” Other!Xander said apologetically.

Xander frowned. “Like hard as in ‘kind of annoying’ or hard as in ‘whoa, the bullets bounce right off this Superman guy’?”

Cordelia snorted. “All Xanders are apparently insane nerds.” She stirred her drink carelessly. “Willow’s in Africa. Some kind of save the children crusade. Who knows.”

Xander blinked. “Oh… kay. Well, never mind then. Buffy?”

Another silence.

“Haven’t seen her since high school,” Cordelia said casually. “She had a whole thing. Had to kill her vampy boyfriend. Kind of ran away after that.”

Xander knew his eyes were growing wilder by the second. He took a deep breath. “Giles?” he asked finally. “Spike?”

Other!Xander laughed at him. “Spike? You mean William the Bloody? Whoa, man. What do you want with that guy?”

Xander frowned. “He’s kind of a good guy in my world. These days.”

Other!Xander blinked at him. “That’s majorly weird.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.” Xander brushed a useless hand through his hair, then stopped himself abruptly. If he kept that up, he was going to be as bald as his old man before long. “Right. Guessing no Spike then. How about Giles?”

“Still at the Hellmouth, last I heard. Some new Slayer chick out there. Faith?”

Xander breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah, I know Faith. Can we give them a call?”

“Phone’s out on the table in the hall. Giles is under G-man in the rolodex.”

Xander finished his beer in one long swig, a small smile pulling at his lips as he stood. “Of course he is.”

 

***

 

Thomas regarded his other self thoughtfully. He had, not surprisingly, interrupted himself in bed with an uncommonly pretty lady. Said lady had also screamed when he appeared in the bedroom without warning and left abruptly after, despite Other!Thomas’s assurances that it was just his twin brother. Thomas had to admire his other self for that bit of brilliance under pressure.

The two Thomases were sitting now on Other!Thomas’s futon, sharing a handle of brandy.

“Think I recognized that one. From Prof. Sherman’s lecture. Kathleen?”

Other!Thomas laughed. “Katherine.” He paused. “I think.”

Both Thomases grinned, and Thomas leaned further into the futon contemplatively.

“So I don’t end up going back to Sunnydale, after all, I guess.”

Other!Thomas paused, brandy halfway to his mouth. “ _Back_  to Sunnydale? I’ve never been. Don’t think Auntie and Uncle intend on it, either.”

Thomas blinked, frowning. “Guess things are bit more bodged than I thought.” He sighed and took the proffered brandy bottle. “Right, another nip of this, then we’ll ring mum. Better get the Paris coven involved.”

Other!Thomas nodded. “Sure, mate.” He paused. “Think it has anything to do with Liz and Elly?”

Thomas chuckled. “Doesn’t it always?”

 

***

 

Willow had no more than finished the last syllable of her spell when her vision blurred into double, and she was no longer sitting in the Magic Box training room. She was instead standing in some ornately wallpapered room, surrounded by a half dozen women and... herself?

The other Willow waved at her a bit wryly. “Hi Willow. Bye Willow.” And then the women were all chanting, and Willow found everything blurring again, in a sort of different way.

Next thing she knew, she was in the middle of the Magic Box, the Scoobies gathered around her.

Willow blinked heavily, wincing as her stomach did a very uncomfortably flippy thing. “Wow, that is so not with the fun.”

“Teleportation usually isn't," Buffy offered stoically, from her position across the table. Spike was standing at her shoulder, eyeing Willow in a kind of cold way that made the back of her neck shiver. She glanced around. Xander, Thomas, and Anya were by the register. Giles was near the small staircase. Dawn was on the ladder. Mathilde, Albert, and Faith were in the training room doorway. And every single one of them was watching her with a kind of angrily buzzing silence, like a room full of bees.

"Teleportation?"

Buffy nodded briefly, her face impassive. "You ended up travelling to Willow here; since she's not nearby, she had to send you to us."

“Oh,” Willow murmured uncomfortably. Was that supposed to make sense? She really wasn't sure, at this point. “What…what day is it?”

Something tugged at the edges of Buffy’s mouth, but Willow didn’t know if was the beginning of a smile or a frown. “January 09, 2002.”

Excitement bubbled up in her. “Really? So I did it?” She glanced at the surrounding faces uneasily. “Wait. You all were expecting me, weren’t you?” She hesitated. “And where’s Tara?”

Giles made a small, angry noise. “Tara has no desire to see you at this moment, you rank arrogant amateur.”

Buffy held up a hand. “Giles. Civil, remember? She’ll get enough of that soon enough.”

A dark and heavy blob of worry dropped in Willow’s stomach. Something was very wrong. “I… I don’t understand,” she stammered.

Buffy sighed and Willow saw Spike’s hand on her shoulder tighten. Something was off about her once-best friend, and she realized what it was all at once. “You cut your hair.”

Buffy gave her a humorless smile. “Kind of.” The Slayer leaned forward, her green eyes hard and piercing. “Willow, you did it, okay? You travelled to the future.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ the size of Kentucky going on here.”

Spike growled. “But you took the whole fucking town with you, Red.”

 _Huh?_  “What?”

Giles tapped an impatient hand on the side of the bookcase nearest to him, looking almost as angry as she’d ever seen him. “You came to the future, Willow, but you neglected to close the area of effect to this dimension only and to your own…  _industrious_  self.”

Willow cringed. “I’m going to guess that’s kind of badness.”

“You sent everyone else in Sunnydale spiraling through different futures in different dimensions,” Buffy said quietly. There was something tight and aching in her expression. Her eyes snapped back to Willow. “And you’re going to fix it.”

Willow felt panic rise in her in a thick, fiery wave. “But… but I don’t know how!”

Anya huffed. “You planned to go back once you got here, right? So just do it, and take everyone from your time - everyone you sent off into who knows where - back with you.”

Giles nodded sharply. “It is, in fact, exactly what you have already done, from our perspective. So I have no doubt that you will do it now.” The way his eyes glittered told her she didn’t really have a choice.

Willow swallowed heavily, looking anxiously at the gathered group. “I’m sorry,” she said meekly.

Buffy shrugged. “It’s not us you’re going to need to apologize to.” She slid a thick tablet of paper and a pen across the table. “Get writing, Wils. We have a long night ahead of us.”


	5. Getting Back to Right

It took far longer than Buffy wanted for them to reach the house on Revello Drive, and she tugged open the door impatiently, guiding Spike inside. Of course, being inside compounded just how far away from her own Sunnydale she actually was. Gone were the maps and photos and her lovely couch. Gone were the LP’s and record player and oriental rugs. Gone was her most recent home. When Buffy did nothing more than stand in the entryway for a long moment, staring, Spike softly cleared his throat.

“Slayer?”

Buffy gave the battered vampire an apologetic look. “Sorry, El– Spike.” She led him to the couch and then collapsed with him onto the old monstrosity, almost thoughtlessly curling herself into his arms. Spike held himself stiffly for a half moment, then pulled her more tightly against his chest, his breath shallow and uneven.

It was his uneasy breathing did her in, so different from her own Spike’s relaxed inhalations. She sat up, knowing that tears were prickling in the edges of her eyes, and gently touched the vampire’s swollen cheek. “Your poor face.”

Spike eyed her with such incredible disbelief that her heart wanted to break. What had happened in this world to make this Spike so amazed to receive kindness?

“I’ll be fine, pet.”

Buffy sighed and made to reply when a creaking on the stairs pulled her up short. A very confused Tara appeared a moment later. “Buffy? D-did you change your mind about needing me to watch…” The blonde witch trailed off, her eyes wide.

Buffy threw her a wry smile. “Hi, Tara. Looking at my aura, I’m guessing? No, I’m not your Buffy. And before you ask, I don’t know where your Buffy is. Although, when I do find her, she has a lot of explaining to do.” She paused, her eyes flickering to Spike’s injured face. “Do you know if your Buffy keeps blood in the fridge?”

Tara just blinked at her for a long moment, and Spike gave a short bark of laughter. “Think you’ve rendered Glinda speechless there, Slayer. Might give her a minute.” He raised a brow. “You’re awfully matter-of-fact about this.”

Buffy shrugged. “It’s not my first dip into the weird and confusing world of time travel.” She waved a hand in front of Tara as she pulled herself to her feet. “Tara? Blood?”

Tara swallowed roughly, seeming to come back to herself. “Oh, um... blood? I– I don’t think so.”

 _Of course not._  What the hell was wrong with this world’s Buffy? “Right.” Buffy sat back down, directly onto a very startled Spike’s lap. She leaned to one side, pulling her hair back from her neck. “Here. Just keep to the right side, if you don’t mind.”

Spike gaped at her. “You want me to drink from you?”

Buffy raised a brow, a small smile pulling at her. “That was the general idea, yes.”

Spike regarded her for a moment, narrow-eyed, and then leaned slightly forward. But when she expected him to lower himself to her neck, he simply flicked her upper arm, very lightly, with his pointer finger. Buffy watched him reflexively flinch, then eye her with surprise when no pain apparently surfaced.  _What the… Oh. He has a chip._

New understanding filled her. “You can’t hurt your Buffy, can you? That’s why you let her beat on you?”

There was a flicker of pain from the vampire’s broken face. “No, I can.”

“You can? And you  _still_  let her do that?”

Silence.

Buffy sighed. “Well, I can guess why you can hurt  _me.._. With my demon-ness up front and center, that Initiative garbage probably doesn’t think I’m human. But what happened to your Buffy?”

“Your… demon-ness?” Spike repeated, wonderingly. Then he shook his head slightly, and said, “My Buffy came back wrong.”

Tara drew in a sharp breath. “No! No, she didn’t.”

Both Spike and Buffy stared at her. When the witch just bit her lip and didn’t continue, Buffy raised a brow. “Came back wrong? Wrong from where?”

Spike chuckled lowly, humorlessly. “Nowhere, pet, unless you count heaven. My Buffy died.”

Buffy frowned at him. “But she’s not dead anymore?”

“Willow.. a-a-and some of us, we resurrected her,” Tara said softly, flinching. “We didn’t know. We thought she was in hell.”

“Didn’t fucking check though, did you!” Spike growled.

Tara looked down at her feet. “No,” she whispered. “We didn’t. Willow was so… sure.”

Buffy regarded the two steadily. “Let me get this straight. Your Buffy died and you took her out of heaven? And you brought her back  _wrong_?” Well, that certainly explained the abuse. Not that it excused it.

Tara scrunched up her face in an anxious wince. “W-we didn’t bring her back wrong.”

The front door opened quietly then, followed by a surprised, “Tara? You’re still awake?”

Buffy’s neck tingled with the warning of  _Slayer_. Beside her on the couch, Spike stiffened, like leather drying in fast motion.

“Sounds like your Buffy is home,” Buffy said stoically.

There was a short silence, then another figure – another Buffy – strode in the room. Her eyes were swollen and puffy, as if she’d been crying for an hour, and her face looked incredibly drawn and pale, her blonde hair pulled up raggedly from her face.

If Buffy didn’t know any better, she’d have sworn she was staring at her post-World War II self. From right around 1946. God, that had been such a shitty year. And it looked like this Buffy was still there.

Other!Buffy stared at her, wide-eyed. “What is going on?” She motioned at Buffy on the couch, looking frantically at Tara. “Why is there another me here? Oh god, is there really another me? Am I insane right now?”

Buffy stood slowly, careful not to jostle the injuries of the vampire that wasn’t her husband. “Yes, I’m really here. I’m not sure if you’re insane, but,” Buffy paused, holding the shocked woman with a cold gaze, “if this is what you do to those who love you, I’m going to go with ‘yes.’”

Buffy frowned at her, her face bewildered and wary. “Those who… What are you talking about?”

Buffy raised a brow. “Do you somehow not see the beaten Spike on your couch?”

Without a doubt, Other!Buffy had seen him. She’d seen him since the second she walked into the room. It was also painfully obvious just how much this Buffy wished she _hadn’t_  seen him. Every inch of her was drowning in fear and self-hatred, so virulent she trembled with it. And this other Buffy was doing her damnest to run away from it with every ounce of her being. It rested in the darks of her irises, that desire to run. To escape.

Buffy had almost run, too, after the war (in the kind of way that _didn’t_  involve beating her husband senseless). But Elly hadn’t let her. He’d held her and loved her and kept her whole. And she’d learned to laugh again.

Other!Buffy’s chin rose. “I don’t know who you think you are, but–”

“I’m a version of you,” Buffy interrupted, with a touch of amusement. “Just a bit older.”

Other!Buffy paused at that, and squinted. “You don't look any older.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Buffy told her dryly.

Other!Buffy frowned then, her face growing slightly slack with the telltale look of vampire sensing. All at once, her entire demeanor changed and she tugged Tara away, toward the door. Her eyes snapped to Buffy’s neck, to the scarred marks exposed on the right side of her neck. “You’re a vampire. You’re a vampire me.” Her voice was sharp as steel.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Pete’s sake. You’re nearly as bad as Giles was.”

“ _Was?!_ ”

“ _My_  Giles was,” she amended, trying and failing to hide a smile. “And my Giles is still hale and hearty. I don’t know about yours, but I haven’t seen him.”

Other!Buffy paused, wrinkling her nose. “Hale and hearty? What are you, a Buffy from my grandmother’s era?”

Spike chuckled weakly on the couch. “Sounds like she was actually around a bit before that, Slayer.” He paused, and then said very lowly, “She’s not a vampire, Buffy. I would know, yeah?”

“No, I’m not,” Buffy agreed. “I’m here from another dimension, I think.” She frowned. “And from five months in the past.”

Other!Buffy froze, stiff as an iron rod. “Five months… It’s summer 2001, where you’re from?”

“Yep.”

Other!Buffy paled. “But… I should be… gone.”

“So I hear.” Buffy looked at her curiously. “What killed you?”

A pause. “I jumped into a portal to save the world.”

Something cold plunged into Buffy’s stomach. “Where did you end up?”

Other!Buffy eyed her blankly. “End up? I didn’t end up anywhere… I’m told my… my body fell to the ground.” Other!Buffy’s eyes moved to the floor.

Tara cleared her throat softly. “Mr. Giles says she ended up passing through every universal dimension instantaneously, and the trauma kind of, well, killed her.”

Spike made a small noise. “So why didn’t you die, too, pet? No Glory in your world?”

Buffy laughed. “Oh, there was plenty of Glory, in all of her Hell Godliness. Portal included.”

“So what happened there?” Spike asked quietly. “Why is your 2001 different?”

Buffy regarded the vampire silently for a long moment.  _He must not have jumped with her. Maybe he didn’t catch her quickly enough. Elly almost didn’t catch me, after all._ “My portal went to the past,” she said finally.

Other!Buffy’s mouth twisted. “Sounds like a nicer portal than mine. You know, with the whole not making you dead thing.”

“Life in itself is nothing,” Buffy said softly.

“Huh?”

“It’s Millay," Spike said, a near-whisper.

Other!Buffy looked at them in exasperation. “I have no idea what either of you are saying.”

Buffy shrugged. “It’s from a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay.” She glanced back at Spike. “You read it to me every April.”

Spike looked at her with immense wonder. “Do I now?”

“Every year,” she confirmed softly.  _I miss you, William._  A sudden, horrible thought gripped her. What if Spike thought she was just gone? What if – to him – she’d simply disappeared from his side?  _Oh god, Elly, don’t do anything stupid before I can get back to you._

“Pet?”

This Spike was touching her arm lightly, and she realized she’d gone rigid. Buffy took a deep breath. “Sorry. It’s just…” She swallowed heavily. “I’m worried about my Spike. I don’t know what happened to him or if…” She looked this Spike in the eyes, gazing into the familiar blue depths and letting them keep her whole. “My world doesn’t make sense without him.”

Spike’s mouth drew a crooked line. “I'm sure his is the same way.”

“It is,” Buffy agreed quietly. She turned and regarded her haggard other self silently, frowning. This Buffy was a wreck if there ever was one.  _Damnit, William. I know you wouldn’t leave her like this. I guess I can’t, either._  “Right then,” she said aloud to Other!Buffy as she lowered herself back onto Spike’s lap, to the vampire’s startled exclamation. “I have a pretty good idea of your major malfunction, but we’ll deal with that in a few minutes. First, I need to clean up your mess.”

“...My mess?”

Buffy eyed her coldly. “Yes. Your mess. Also known as William’s face. The face of the love of my life, who I hope to god I never have to see like this again.”

Other!Buffy’s eyes widened almost comically. “Did you just say…”

Spike gave a low, humorless laugh. “She did, Slayer. Apparently this Buffy is married to me in her world.” He turned away, toward the back of the couch. “Bloody rotten joke, that is.”

Buffy caught the vampire’s face and gently turned it back to her. “Hey.” She waited until his swollen eyes were focused on her. “You’re him. A version of him, anyway. And… I care about you too, you know.” Buffy laughed a bit helplessly. “I’m not sure there’s a version of you I wouldn’t care about.”

Spike swallowed roughly. “Dunno, pet,” he said so lowly she could hardly hear. “Pretty sure you wouldn’t have liked me a couple years back.”

“What, when you were a mass murderer with poor dating skills? Unchipped evil vampire?”

Spike’s jaw clenched. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Buffy laughed. “Well, you don’t know me very well.” She shrugged. “Heck, most of my Sunnydale doesn’t know me very well anymore. But, you’re wrong, just so we’re clear.”

“You’re less like my Buffy every minute, pet.”

“I think you just almost exactly quoted something my Giles said once.”

“That’s bloody depressing.”

And suddenly this Spike was grinning at her, as well as his injuries would allow. It brightened up his entire face.

“Oh,” Buffy said softly, “there you are. I knew you were in there somewhere.” She tilted her head to the side again. “Now, will you drink already? I know you’re hurting.”

Other!Buffy gasped. “ _You want him to drink from you?!_ ”

Buffy eyed her stonily. “Yes. And he’s going to. Unless you’re offering?”

Other!Buffy just stared at her, her face riddled with shock and disgust.

“Didn’t think so.”

Spike watched her steadily. “You’re sure, luv?”

“You’ve done it more times than you could guess, Spike. It’s really not an issue.”

Spike chuckled darkly. “The lucky bastard.” Then he shifted into gameface and, with one last hesitation, sent his fangs slicing through the skin of her neck.

It hurt without sex. It always did. But just as her Spike had always held her tightly, stroking her side in a reassuring rhythm – not unlike a cat kneading its paws – so did this Spike. It comforted her in some kind of internal way almost too deep to be visceral.

And despite the piercing pain in her neck, the pulling of blood itself was still always deceptively soothing, drawn out in the pattern of her own heartbeat. At least, Spike made it so. Even after more than a century, Buffy still remembered the agony of Angel’s bite – the attack of a starved, desperate animal. It had been ravaging, drenching her entire world in red and black and fire. Spike’s bite was never like that. His was like a slim, delicate blade. It could undo her in an instant, but it was a shockingly easy way to go.

She didn’t know this Spike in his entirety; in truth, he could have tried to drain her dry. But she knew he wouldn’t. And, indeed, he withdrew from her neck a minute later, licking the newly opened gashes with his tongue.

“Christ, Slayer,” he murmured headily, “your blood is…”

“The best you’ve ever tasted?”

“Yeah.”

“I know.” She stood then, evaluating. Her muscles felt slightly looser with the blood loss, but she’d lived – and fought – with far less. She nodded to Other!Buffy. “Malfunction time. You and I are going to the Magic Box.”

Other!Buffy frowned at her. “Right now? No one’s there.”

“We don’t need anyone else tonight. We just need the training room.”

“You want to train with me?”

“No, I want to fight with you,” Buffy said calmly. “You’re angry? You hate yourself? Well, you’re going to get that out right now.” Other!Buffy didn’t answer, but her face paled. Buffy gentled her voice. “If I had to guess, I’d say your Spike is the only one you can punch right now, non slay-wise. But he won’t fight you – not the way you need to be fought. I will.” She paused. “And then, in the morning, we’re going to have Giles and the Scoobies help me figure out how to get home.”

Other!Buffy glanced away. “Giles is gone.”

“What, on a trip?”

“No… he’s back in England.”

“Well, who’s your Watcher then?”

“Um,” Other!Buffy shifted uneasily. “I guess he still is.”

Buffy eyed her carefully. There was a lot of something going on there. “Okay. Then we’ll just call him. The others can come to the Magic Box in the morning.” She paused. “There are other Scoobies in this world besides Tara, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, because we’ll probably need both witches to figure this out.”

Tara flinched wildly. “Willow can’t… s-she can’t…”

Buffy sighed. God, this world was a complete train wreck. “Just grab whoever makes up the team here that can help, then.” She looked at Buffy firmly. “But we’re going to the Magic Box now.”

Other!Buffy pursed her lips. “You’re awfully…. Drill Sergeant-y.”

“I’ve lived through several wars. Things wear off.” She turned back to Spike on the couch. Already the swelling in his face was slightly lessened. “You’re looking better.”

He nodded briefly, eyes flickering between the two Buffys. “Yeah. Feel better, too. Best be on my way.”

He made to rise from the couch, but Buffy gently pushed him back down. “No, you’re going to stay here tonight. You need the rest.” She reached over and tugged the curtains shut, a memory playing in her mind, making the edges of her mouth curl up into a smile. “There. Now no big pile of dust in the morning.”

Other!Buffy made a small, irritated noise behind her. “This isn’t your house. You don’t get to decide who stays here.”

Buffy turned slowly, fixing her head to the side in such a Spike-like way that the other woman flinched. “Go ahead, then. Tell him to leave. And then tell  _me_  exactly how much of a monster you really are.” Her face hardened. “Go on. I’m waiting.”

Other!Buffy regarded her with angry incredulity. “Why do you care so much? This isn’t your Spike.”

“No, but with the way you treat him, he’s better off not being yours, either.” Buffy turned back to the gobsmacked Spike, gently brushing her lips across the vampire’s cool ones. “Sleep well.” Smiling at him, she straightened and gave her other self a stoic look. “Shall we?”

Other!Buffy looked like she didn’t know whether to be ashamed or just furious. After a moment, she simply whirled to the door and left without saying a word.

Buffy made to follow, only to be stopped by a pale, vampiric hand. Spike was staring at her, his face tense and haunted.

“Buffy…”

“Yes, Spike?”

He closed his eyes in a long blink. “I love you,” he whispered finally, determination filling his gaze.

Buffy regarded him seriously. “I love you, too.”

A small, almost tortured smile pulled at his lips as he released her wrist and collapsed back onto the couch. “Thank you. Needed… needed to hear that. At least from… some Buffy.”

“I know.” And with a last kind smile at the vampire who wasn’t her husband, she nodded to a shell-shocked Tara and strode out of the house and onto the porch, where Other!Buffy was waiting impatiently.

They set off down the street in silence. Other!Buffy’s eyes kept flickering over to her uncertainly, clearly on the verge of speaking and never quite getting there.  _God, no wonder William always knows when I have something on my mind. I’m not exactly subtle, am I?_

“What?” Buffy asked finally, evenly.

Other!Buffy looked away. “How… how you can love him?” she demanded in a whisper. “He doesn't have a soul.”

Buffy sighed. God, everyone was so hung up on souls. It was like being hung up on hair color. Sure, it helped with the description, but it didn’t make the person. But then she’d had over a hundred years to figure that out. “Souls don’t mean nearly what you seem to think they do. They’re a yoke. They make good choices easier and bad ones harder. I really don’t think it’s more than that.” She held up a hand as the other woman tried to speak. “And before you parade Angel in front of my nose– I assume Angel exists in this world?” At Other!Buffy’s nod, she continued, “Angel was considered one of the most vicious vampires in history for a reason. He’s not the status quo. Sure, he didn’t have a soul, but he didn’t have a heart, either. The soul he has… I think it helps him remember what having a heart felt like.” Buffy stared down at her wedding ring, her throat tightening. “And William has always had a lot of heart. One that you’re stomping all over. Which – beyond being horrible for him – is a loss for you. He… he’s loved me better than I could ever have imagined someone loving me.”

The two Buffys were silent for a long minute.

“I think your Spike must be very different from mine,” Other!Buffy said finally, firmly.

Buffy shrugged. “I think you just want him to be.”

They didn’t say anything else the entire way to the Magic Box.

 

***

 

“I really don’t know why I’m letting you do this,” Other!Buffy said quietly, eyeing her from across the training room floor.

Buffy shrugged. “Because you hate yourself? Well, lucky for you, here’s something to attack that’s wearing your face.”

“You act like you’ve been there.”

“All of the 1940’s, I was there,” Buffy said, laughing. “But I was angry and hurting for very different reasons than you.”

Other!Buffy swallowed. “The 1940’s… Right, you went back in time. How are you not all with the old and wrinkly?”

“Vengeance demon made me immortal. Her idea of a joke.”

Other!Buffy blinked at her. “You’re… immortal?”

“Yep. I’ll be 142 in January, give or take a few months.” Buffy rolled her eyes. “Time travel kind of messes up that whole exact age thing.”

Other!Buffy bit her lip incredibly hard. “That must be why you’re so different.”

“Probably,” Buffy agreed easily. “Now, are you going to attack me or are we just going to stand here?”

It was, Buffy reflected as they fought, sort of gratifying to punch her other self in the face. This other Buffy wasn’t the only angry one. Time travel, frankly, sucked without Elly. And this different dimension made her equal parts terrified of what her future could have been and grateful that it was nothing like this.

And the fighting itself was undoubtedly interesting. This was nothing like fighting the English Slayer in London so many years ago; this Buffy was  _good_. Not good enough, though.

At one point, Other!Buffy made a vicious jab toward her side and Buffy side-stepped it easily, to the other woman’s annoyance.

“Are you just playing with me?” she demanded, panting, in between blows.

“I’m a hundred years older than you,” Buffy said calmly, kicking out sharply and sending the other woman plunging momentarily to the floor. “I’d be a little miffed if that didn’t count for something.”

Buffy saw the moment Other!Buffy realized she was going to lose this fight. Her punches became looser, almost panicked, and her face turned white as a sheet. Buffy cut through her defenses with several hard blows and sent her stumbling back. With a quick leap, Buffy was on her again, knocking her fully to the ground with an unforgiving punch to the chin. Other!Buffy tried to rise, but her head was weaving unsteadily, and everything in her trembled. For a second she just lay there, gasping, and then her harsh breaths turned into sobs and the woman curled up into a ball on the mat and cried.

Buffy sighed and kneeled next to her other self, tugging her into her arms. “It’s okay, Buffy,” she softly, letting the woman bawl into her shirt.

“I can’t…” Other!Buffy sobbed. “I can’t... I can’t!”

Buffy just stroked the other woman’s hair and sat silently, the must of the semi-dark training room filling her nose. It was a million miles away from her Bangkok flat, where she’d freaked at Spike about returning to Sunnydale (the first time), but the sentiment was just the same. “I know that feeling, too.” She sighed. “It only goes away when you realize you have to stop trying.”

Other!Buffy sniffled against her. “Stop trying?” she whispered. “What, just give up?”

“No. When you stop trying to be what you were before. You’re never going to be pre-death Buffy again, the same way I’m never going be pre-jump Buffy. It’s just not a thing.” She smiled slightly. “Qui n’avance pas, recule.”

Other!Buffy pulled away from her, wrinkling her nose. “Huh?”

“It means that those who do not move forward end up being diminished,” Buffy said softly. Albert had said it once in 1939, when asked about a risky mission – a shrugging, easy answer. It had stuck with her since.

“You speak _French_?”

“And a bit of about a dozen languages. French is still my favorite, though. William and I lived in Paris for decades, on and off.”

“Okay, that is entirely bizarro.”

“I’ve had kind of a bizarro life.”

After a minute of silence, Other!Buffy took a deep, shaky breath. “I came back wrong, you know. I let Spike… I want… I don’t know.”

Buffy sighed. “I have no real idea what you guys keep talking about with this vague ‘wrong’ crap, but unless you’re being controlled by some outside force, does it really matter? How you treat people is on you.”

Other!Buffy’s expression was haunted. “I shouldn’t want him. I shouldn’t want what he does to me.”

Buffy laughed. “If you’re looking for confirmation from me, you’re  _so_  barking up the wrong tree. Spike and I have done pretty much everything with each other in pretty much every city around the world.”

Other!Buffy’s face flushed. “Doesn’t it make you feel… dirty?”

“It makes me feel loved.” Buffy shrugged, pulling herself to her feet. “Come on. Let’s grab a couple hours of sleep before we gather your Scoobies.”

Buffy had just bent down to give her other self a helping hand up when the world shivered again, and she was suddenly back in Restfield Cemetery, mid-way through chopping off a Fyarl’s head. Luckily, muscle memory and momentum finished the job and the demon tumbled to the ground in two oozing pieces. Behind her, she heard another Fyarl – the last one – meeting a similar fate. Her back thrummed with the presence of  _Spike_  and she whirled, nearly in the same moment as the vampire at her back did.

For a split second they just stared at one another.

This Spike looked like her husband. The right length hair, unnaturally bright against sun-kissed skin. A comfortingly familiar blue shirt. The glint of a wedding ring on his left hand.

Her sword dropped numbly from her hands, clattering against a headstone with unnerving loudness. Everything in her filled with aching relief and hope.

“Elly?”


	6. Regrouping

To Buffy’s amazement, Spike looked as relieved to see her as she was to see him, and he dropped his own weapon a second after hers hit the ground, tugging her abruptly into his arms. “Thank bloody fuck,” he growled, wrapping her up in a breathless kiss.

She was crying before she knew it, her tears being kissed away nearly as quickly as they spilled, cool lips sliding across her cheeks and peppering the edges of her jaw with desperate devotion.

“Shhh, shhh,” her husband murmured, pressing her so tightly against his chest she thought he might break a rib. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Buffy struggled to regain control of her eyes, fingers fisting the cotton of Spike's shirt.  _I'm back. Elly's here. It's okay now,_  she told herself in a reassuring litany. Taking a deep breath, she buried her head against his chest, by his unbeating heart. “Oh god, Elly. Did you go somewhere else, too? One second I was here with you and then I was in some awful joke of a Sunnydale dimension.”

Spike’s chest rumbled in humorless laughter, his face buried in her hair as he breathed in her scent – reassuring himself that she, too, was back. “Know exactly what you mean, pet.” There was a sudden intake of breath and Spike reared back to look at her, one of his hands rising to brush her hair back from her neck. Something pained and confused crossed his face as he took in her newly re-opened bite wounds. “Buffy? What…”

“You were hurt.” She touched her husband’s cheek reassuringly, lovingly. “The me from whatever dimension I ended up in had done a number on you.” She sighed, her chest tightening. “The other me was a complete disaster. She treated you so terribly.” When Spike just continued to stare, she froze in sudden terror. Oh god, had she violated some unknown vampire mating code?  _Was_  there even a code for cross-dimensional mate bites? Even if it had been Spike, it hadn’t been  _her_  Spike she’d let bite her. “I… you’re not upset, are you?”

Spike’s face softened abruptly and he leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “No, luv. Not upset.” He leaned back after a moment and glanced again at her neck, though he didn't say anything else.

Buffy touched his jaw, bringing his gaze to meet hers. "I thought that side would be better. Was that wrong?"

"No," Spike said roughly. "Just hoped to never see it open again."

Buffy sighed. "You were in really bad shape," she said softly, unable to keep anger from lacing her voice as she again rested her head on his chest. "I hope whatever Buffy you found was better than mine.”

When Spike stiffened against her, not answering, she pulled back questioningly. “Elly?”

He looked away, a muscle ticking wildly in his jaw. “You were gone,” was his tight answer.

Buffy studied the vampire’s haunted face, Other!Buffy’s words filtering into her mind.  _But… I should be… gone._

“I was dead.”

Spike’s gaze flickered back to her, his blue eyes turmoiled and dark. He nodded.

“Glory’s portal?”

Another nod.

She let out a soft breath. “I take it no resurrection in that world?”

Spike frowned at her. “Resurrection?”

“The other me in the place I ended up died, too, but the Scoobies resurrected her. Thus, all the disaster-yness.”

Spike didn’t say anything to that, he simply pulled her back against him, iron tight. She felt the small tremors in his muscles.

“It didn’t happen to me, William.”

“It bloody well almost did.”

She pulled back slightly, firmly drawing her husband’s gaze. “Almost. But you caught me.”

He growled then, so lowly the air vibrated around her. “I’m going to find whoever did this and rip their sodding throat out through their knees.”

“I’m really not sure that’s anatomically possible, Elly.”

Something hard and glittering was in Spike’s eyes, a look she hadn’t seen in a very long time – not since a suvolte demon had nearly bitten her leg off in 1983. “Think I’ll find a way.”

Buffy kissed him gently, with every ounce of love and relief she possessed, sagging in his arms. “God, I’m so exhausted. It feels like I haven’t slept in days.” She paused, grimacing. “And I’m pretty sure I just played therapist for another dimension. Do you think I can get some kind of inter-dimensional compensation for that?”

Spike snorted, a touch of amusement curling the edges of his mouth. “Making blokes fall in line, were you?”

“General Buffy, reporting for duty. Even other me noticed that.”

“Hard to not, luv. You’re bloody insistent.”

“You’ve never seemed to mind.”

A true smirk found her husband’s face. “Will never mind you ordering me about, pet.”

“I’ll remind you of that the next time you get snippy.”

“And I’ll ignore you, as I’ve done for the last century.”

She laughed lowly then, helplessly. “I missed you so much, William. Everything felt wrong and hard and empty without you.”

Spike swallowed roughly. “I know, luv.” He sighed, very reluctantly pulling away from her. “Best find out what that was all about, yeah?”

Buffy nodded, frowning. “Yeah. And see if anyone else was affected.” She glanced down at the dead Fyarl littering the ground, bending to retrieve her sword. “I somehow don’t think it had anything to do with these guys.”

Spike chuckled. “Don’t think they had enough brains to even know what time travel is, pet.” He paused, retrieving his own sword. “Managed to track down Red and Glinda in the other world.”

“Any clues there?”

“Not a one. Glinda knew I was out of time and dimension, ‘course, but not a sodding idea how. Was just about to ring Rupes in England when I came back.”

Buffy nodded wearily, striding quickly from the cemetery with Spike at her side. “You got farther than me, then. I ended up on top of another world’s Spike – literally – and had to get him back to Revello before I got much else done.”

Spike raised a brow. “On top of him?”

Buffy laughed. “We were wearing clothes, William.” Her smile faded. “I thought he was you at first, but then, nothing was right. He was so young.”

Spike snorted. “Young? Not been young since the bleedin’ nineteenth century.” He rolled his eyes. “The first time around.”

“Well, young _er_ ,” she amended. A deep ache settled in her breast. “And nothing else was right, besides. I don’t even know if our family existed in that world. Probably Dawnie. And Mathilde and Albert… somewhere. But the Bits?”

Spike squeezed her free hand tightly. “I know. Let’s get home.”

“Yes, please.”

They walked faster toward Revello Drive.

 

***

 

They were barely in the door when Dawn ambushed them, wrapping Buffy in a panicked hug around her middle as Buffy hurriedly dropped her sword before it turned into a skewering situation.

“ _Ohgodyou’rehere_!”

Buffy returned her sister’s embrace with a raised brow at Spike. “I guess that answers one question.”

Her husband snorted. “Thinking so.”

Dawn looked up almost angrily. “I was in LA. With _dad_.” Her lower lip trembled. “And you were gone. And mom was gone. And I had to hide from dad so he didn’t freak about another Dawn, but he just yelled at the other Dawn when she tried to tell him something was so not right.”

Buffy gently kissed the top of Dawn’s head. “It’s okay, Dawnie. Everything’s back to being right. I think.” She sighed, and looked at Spike, still holding Dawn tightly (although she didn’t really have much choice in the matter at the moment, if she was being honest.  _God, Bit, when did you get a Slayer grip?_ ). “We’d better call the others. See how far this extended.”

“Right o’, pet.”

But Spike had no more than started toward the kitchen phone than the front door to their house slammed open, revealing a pale Faith sagging between the two French vampires.

Albert regarded them seriously. “Général, il y a quelque chose qui cloche.”  _There is something wrong._

“Je sais,” Buffy said with a sigh. _I know._

Faith gave her a weak smile, leaning against the doorframe with a heavy wince as the vampires released her. “Hey, B. Good to see you alive and kicking.”

“Gonna guess you lot got booted into other dimensions too, yeah?” Spike asked easily.

Mathilde nodded, her eyes flashing gold. “Oui, Elly.” She shook her head. “Two of a kind, no? C'etait comme New York une deuxieme fois.”  _It was like New York all over again._

“Except it was us, this time,” Albert added, gripping Mathilde’s shoulders possessively.

Faith nodded. “Ran into a real evil bitch version of me in mine.” She touched her ribs gingerly, limping toward the living room and collapsing onto the couch. “Had a helluva left hook, though.”

Xander, Anya, Thomas, and Tara stumbled into the doorway a moment later.

“Guys? Something way weird was going on at the Bronze,” Xander announced firmly.

“We know,” was his chorused response.

“Oh.” Xander looked a bit crestfallen at that. He frowned. “So you all had a wacky out of, uh, place experience, too?”

“Wacky isn’t exactly how I’d describe it,” Buffy said dryly.

Dawn finally let go of Buffy’s waist and looked curiously at the group. “Where were you guys?”

“My other self was still a vengeance demon,” Anya said brightly. “We had a nice time comparing notes.”

“Yeah, and other!Xander was–” Xander paused, his eyes darting to Anya. “Alone. Very alone.”

“Aww, my poor Xander.”

Xander reddened slightly and looked at Thomas, a plea clear in his eyes.

“I was back in the City with my other half,” Thomas volunteered. “Trying to get things sorted with my mum and the Paris coven.” He laughed. “Gave my other self a bit of a lonely night, though we made do with brandy.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Bit, sometimes you are just too much like your great-great-grandfather for comfort.”

Thomas grinned at her. “Pretty sure that’s why I’m the favorite, Auntie.”

Spike snorted. “Pretty sure that’s why your mum doesn’t mind you with us. Gives the poor lady a chance to regrow some of that hair she’s been pulling out for a couple decades.”

Thomas gave him an innocent look. “She only walked in on me with Amelia the once, Uncle.”

“Yeah? I heard tell there was a Paige in there too. And a Molly.”

“I didn’t say that was the only time,” Thomas said cheekily. “Just that Amelia only happened once.”

Buffy gave Spike a pointed look. “I take it back. Sometimes he’s too much like  _you_.”

Spike sputtered at her. “Oi! Been with one bird for a bloody century, and that’s you, you daft bint.”

“I meant with the phrasing, you stupid vampire.”

Spike snorted, calming slightly. “Well, sure, yeah. That I’ll take credit for.”

Xander laughed, drawing their attention. He shook his head under their stares, looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry, it’s just... sometimes it really hits me how way  _not_  the Spike and Buffy from before you guys are.”

Faith nodded agreement from the couch. “Seriously.” She glanced at Tara. “So where did you get off to, Tara?”

Tara frowned, glancing at her feet. “I w-was at UC Sunnydale. Without Willow.” Her face brightened slightly. “But other!Tara was super nice.”

Spike chuckled. “Can’t imagine you being any other way, pet.”

Tara rewarded him with a warm smile that faded abruptly the next moment. “Has anyone seen Willow? She said she’d catch up with us at The Bronze, but we didn’t see her before we had to leave.”

Xander nodded. “Yeah, it was a bit too with the freaky in there to stick around. Pretty sure everyone else in the place made with the shifting mambo too, but,” he shook his head, “you know how Sunnydale is.”

“They all pretended nothing happened,” Tara agreed.

“It was weird,” Anya added. “I tried to ask the bartender about his experience, but he just ran away.”

Giles entered the entryway then, looking slightly out of breath. “Oh,” he said with surprise. “I see everyone is already here.”

Spike gave him a wry look. “Seems to be the bloody Scooby watering hole these days.” He sighed and motioned to the living room. “Let’s get this meeting on with then, yeah? See if we can't suss out who the hell decided Sunnyhell needed a remodel.”

 

***

“Wait, so I was dead in most of your dimensions?” Buffy asked faintly, from her position on Spike’s lap on one end of the couch. Spike’s grip around her waist tightened.

“Yeah, B,” Faith said, stiffly re-arranging her leg on the couch’s other end. “Mayor ate you.”

“The Master in mine,” Giles said softly, uncomfortably cleaning his glasses.

“I think you were just in hiding in mine,” Xander offered weakly.

“You might’ve been alive in mine,” Anya offered. “I was in Columbia, so I didn’t see you.”

Buffy nodded slowly. “Maybe.”  _But probably not._  She shrugged, trying dispel her unease. “Slayer, here. Expiration date is usually short. Even where I went I was dead, just resurrected. Which, by the way, sounds like a horrible idea, guys.”

“That’s a 'no' on resurrection,” Xander said with his pointer finger in the air. “Got it.”

Buffy glanced back at her tense husband. “Looks like I beat the odds in this world, Elly.”

“Gonna beat them for a bloody longer time yet, too,” he growled, blue eyes flashing amber.

Tara strode back into the living room from the kitchen, twisting her hands uneasily. “I tried to call Willow, but there was no answer at Xander’s.”

The front door creaked open slowly then and a very hesitant Willow stepped in.

“And speaking of,” Spike said easily. “’Lo, Red. See you found us.”

“Um, hi,” Willow said squeakily. Her eyes darted around the group, looking entirely relieved. She very pointedly seemed to be avoiding Tara’s eyes. “You guys are okay. That’s good. I did it right!”

The casual atmosphere of the room dissipated and Giles very slowly put his glasses back on, fixing her with a cold gaze. “What,  _pray tell_ , did you do right?”

Willow bit her lip, eyes flickering only briefly toward her shocked girlfriend. It was the posture of guilt if Buffy had ever seen one. And she had; hundreds of times, in pretty much every Bit, at one time or another.  _Willow, what did you do?_

“I…” Willow halted, then looked them all a bit proudly, something dark and defiant in her eyes. “I did something no one else has ever done. Something that’s supposed to be impossible.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Tara. “Oh, goddess,” the blonde said in horror, backing up a step, “you didn’t! Willow, you promised!”

Willow cringed and held out her arms pleadingly. “I just wanted to see if it would work, baby.”

Giles stood up abruptly, anger pouring from him in a thick coursing wave. “What,” he barked, “did you do? Besides force me to spend the last four hours with a self who lost his Slayer half a decade ago?”

Spike growled loudly, rising from the couch with Buffy still in his arms. “Could use a fucking explanation right about now, Red.”

“Now,” Buffy echoed firmly, trying to still the wave of disappointment and anger coursing through her.

Willow shifted uneasily, looking at her feet. “I travelled to the future.” She looked back up at them all with a wince. “I just kind of forgot a thing or two.”


	7. Sunnydale-at-Large: Regrouping (Part 1)

Giles found himself yet again at the dining table on Revello Drive. It had become, he reflected pensively, the new locale for chats with Buffy (and Spike, inevitably, as the two were nearly inseparable in this day and age). He held a cup of strong English tea in front of him, brewed by a barely restrained master vampire, who was pacing even now in the middle of the dining room, unable to bring himself to sit.

Giles rather wished his own anger was so easily expressed. It coated him like a kind of steel armor, rigidly contained through years of experience. Releasing the full force of Ripper on Willow was logically somewhat unwarranted (barely), even if he did desperately want to grab the redhead and shake her fiercely until she had ingested some level of common sense.

Instead, he glanced back toward the Summers’s living room, where his Slayer lay dozing on the couch. He had patched Faith up during their earlier impromptu meeting, against her irritated assurances that she was fine. There did seem to be nothing more dire than a rather large collection of bruises, but still. It gave him something useful to do. And she was now, after all, his charge.

Giles glanced at the blonde Slayer across from him, who was staring rather blankly into her tea cup. Never had he thought he’d see the day where Buffy Summers drank tea. But then, he’d never imagined her to be older than his grandfather, either. He was rather surprised to find that fact no longer shocked him. In practice, it was the oddest of pleasures to have found a mature associate in his once young pseudo-daughter. Even in his wildest dreams, he’d never imagined the opportunity to see his Slayer grow old (assuming that he himself made it into his dotage). Of course, this Buffy would never  _look_ old, thanks to her very strange adventure in the past – a circumstance which made him think that perhaps, for the first time, the Powers That Be had extended some gesture of gratitude to their Chosen One. Or perhaps they had no hand in it all, and every bit was thanks to the currently pacing master vampire.

Giles took a sip of tea.

He had not, he decided, taken the initial news of Buffy’s return as well as he would have liked. Brandishing a stake at his once charge had certainly been a low point of the entire affair. But then… this Buffy Summers was lengths away from the fiery, hard-nosed Slayer that he had once watched over. That was not to imply she was any less fiery or hard-nosed now, of course. He doubted those traits could ever really fade, as they were as integral to Buffy as her eye color. And yet they had been molded into a rather astounding set of principles and controlled temper by an almost unfathomable length of life and a vampire… a  _man_  with depths that even now surprised him.

It was almost easier to think of the pre-jump Buffy Summers and William the Bloody as never having returned to Sunnydale at all. Because these two currently in the room bore little resemblance to them, in so many ways.

It still confounded him to have long discussions with the married pair regarding demon rehabilitation or the merits of peaceful interspecies societies. He had thought his Council indoctrinations somewhat behind him before. This new Buffy had quite revealed that he wasn’t nearly so far from the fold as he liked to believe. Early on, he had even debated whether or not he wanted to be. It was bordering blasphemic, what his Slayer wanted to do. What she had become. He was constantly fighting a sense of wrongness. Of fear. And then Buffy had convinced him to accompany her to a side of town he’d never entered before, to a small pub he hadn’t even known existed (although, being the Hellmouth, he could hardly be surprised that it did). He’d found himself conversing with a dozen different demons over the course of his visit, many of whom were not identified as peaceful; and if he’d closed his eyes, he might have never known the pall of the supernatural. It was entirely unnerving, to say the least.

Of course, the constant presence of the two French vampires had only compounded the feeling. Giles had long grown used to the idea of William the Bloody as a vampiric anomaly, and so the many, very human qualities he possessed had long since ceased to amaze. It was hard to say the same for Albert and Mathilde, two master vampires with no real compunction to be moral other than their own wishes and their desire to be respectful of their claimed family.

In the end, Giles had simply surrendered. Now he found purpose in recording the changes in Sunnydale and providing whatever shielding he could to the rapidly changing Hellmouth. It was his now greatest fear that the Council might catch wind of this very different Sunnydale and undo the rather remarkably emerging tableau.

Of course, the Hellmouth was a challenge all on its own. He pursed his lips. Made that much harder by amateur witches with no sense of restraint or foresight.

“Do you think I had any effect at all?” he asked wearily.

Buffy glanced up from her tea, her green eyes regarding him thoughtfully, with perhaps a touch of amusement. “Well, I have to give you credit for the several new ways you managed to say ‘stupid idiot’ without actually saying the words.”

“Yes, well,” he muttered, “perhaps I ought to have simply said them.”

Spike chuckled, pausing in his pacing. “Dunno, Rupert. Rather enjoyed ‘grossly negligent reprobate’.”

Giles couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips. “Indeed.” He set down his tea then, sighing. “I am a Watcher, Buffy. I am not a magic teacher, and I am not a babysitter.” He paused, adding dryly, “despite the many years it seems I have played the latter.”

“But?”

“But I feel I have done a great disservice in not regulating Willow’s magical progress.” He met Buffy’s understanding gaze. “It’s simply… good lord, my dear, I don’t have the energy for such an undertaking.”

Buffy laughed lowly. “It’s not really your job, Giles. As you said. Still, you’re not wrong. Willow never really had a teacher, and the opportunity would have probably made things… better.”

Giles stared at his tea for a long moment.  _If only Jenny hadn’t_ … But no, that was a future long since gone. “It is too much to hope, I dare say, that Tara might take Willow under her wing?”

Spike made a small, disbelieving noise. “Chit’s too nice to say a bleedin’ word against her lady love.” He grinned at Buffy. “Good thing I’ve never worried about that bit of tosh, eh, pet?”

Buffy raised a brow. “Unfortunately for me, William.”

“Someone’s got to keep your tight arse in line, Slayer.”

“Oh,  _I’m_  the one that needs reined in? Are we forgetting who thought it was a brilliant idea to take on an entire sewer full of Howler demons?”

“Bloody annoying buggers,” Spike said with a shrug. He grinned, flashing fang. “Made it out in one piece, didn’t we?”

“Barely, you idiot.”

Giles cleared his throat, fending off the further dozen snips that were sure to follow without an interruption. “As you say, it is not likely that Tara will impose a measure of, ah, restraint.”

Buffy tilted her head in thought, one of a dozen mannerisms the married couple seemed to have picked up from one another over the years. “It’s hard to say. She was super not happy with Willow. Maybe a lover’s spat will be good for them.” She winced. “Not that I want them to be fighting.”

Spike sighed, finally sprawling into a seat next to his wife. He swiped her teacup easily and took a long draw. “Not a certain solution, luv.”

The couple shared a short look. It was always hard to say exactly what conversations the pair had in those moments, but it was almost supernatural, the way they seemed to follow one another’s thoughts. Of course, Giles thought dryly, being around anyone for a century was likely to have that consequence.

“Right,” Buffy said then. “I’m going to call the Paris coven tomorrow.” She glanced out the window, at the pinkening sky. “Well, later today. Maybe they’ll be open to accepting a new student.”

Giles raised a brow. “Send Willow to train with them? While that’s a rather inspired idea, Buffy, I can’t see Willow leaving for another country of her own free will, and certainly not during the school year.”

Buffy sighed. “Well, it can’t hurt to try. But first I have to see if our Paris network would even take her.” She paused, brow furrowed. “You know, there’s a part I didn’t quite understand from all the...” she waved her hands vaguely in front of the table, “explanations. Why was there two of each of us? And why the weird positioning? I was literally straddling another Spike.”

Giles nodded, recalling the tumbler of scotch in his hand with a wry smile.  _Could bloody well use a nip of that._  He sighed. “The spell Willow wrote to move forward in time included her physical body. That required an entrance point. Apparently, she used a future body as an anchor and slipped herself – and, by extension, us – into places where our future selves had been a minute before.” He drew off his glasses, shaking his head. “It was rather brilliant, actually.”

“Except for the fact that she’s the only one who actually stayed in this dimension,” Buffy added dryly.

Giles drained the rest of his tea and set the cup down with a firm ting of ceramic. “Yes. Except for that.”

 

***

 

It was just past sunrise when Spike heard the creak of the upstairs shower shift to running. Rupert had at last made it back to his flat with the other Slayer, and the two Bits were lost to deep sleep, the steady rhythm of their heartbeats thudding through the walls. Mathilde and Albert’s presence was an ever-present itch from the direction of the basement.

He adjusted the blanket on the couch into a neat rectangle and then started up the stairs. Every inch of him thrummed with need. Decades ago, he would have just shagged Buffy senseless right then and there in the cemetery, not giving a bleedin’ fuck that there was other business to attend to. But Buffy wasn’t the only one no longer on vacation. He had, it seemed, inherited a job right along with his mate. Not that he’d choose to be anywhere else. But still, the waning hours of night passing into morning had been almost unbearable. He’d been half tempted to say hell with the tea and bend Buffy right over against the dining room table, audience be damned.

Rupert had eventually, he thought, noticed the tension, for he’d made a rather quick exit when discussions were done. Or else Watcher was simply done in, like the rest of them. Either way, the net effect was the same. Namely, that there was now a slick and warm Buffy in the upstairs shower. His cock pulsed at the thought, making his jeans even more strained. Sodding trousers. He took the final stairs two at a time and slipped into the fogging bathroom with all the silence experience allowed. It wouldn’t matter to Buffy – she always knew when he was near.

And there she was, the shower curtain thrown back in welcome. Her face was held under the pouring showerhead, her eyes closed in clear relief. She’d always had a penchant for bathing, borne, he was sure, of the great discrepancy between her Calling and her inborn Valley girl sensibilities. She hadn’t made much mention of it during their vacation, but remembering her squeal of delight at taking her first shower of the twentieth century still made him chuckle.

Now she moved her face from the streaming water as he stripped, her green eyes watching the motions with clear admiration. He climbed into the tub with her, hands sliding down her back to clutch at her waist, his cock burying itself against the swell of her arse. She sighed with clear pleasure at the motion, leaning back against him.

“It’s only been two months here, Elly, and already I feel like I need another vacation.” Her chest heaved in a wearied sigh. “Life was so much easier before – excepting a couple decades.” She looked at back at him, over her shoulder. “We never came back to Sunnydale in another dimension, according to the Bit. And the world was still around. Were we wrong to come back here? I’m really starting to wonder.”

“Starting to?” Spike rumbled a laugh. “Seem to recall you ‘starting to’ wonder about two bloody decades ago.”

“I was afraid,” she said softly. “That was different. Now I just think maybe it was a mistake.”

“With all the thinking you’re doing in the shower, it’ll be a miracle if you manage to get yourself clean before the hot water runs out,” he told her, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice.

She just shrugged, her shoulder blades kneading his chest. “Recite me something? Please?”

Spike smiled against her hair. “What do you want to hear, pet?”

“Anything.”

He paused for a moment, hands sliding up to cradle her breasts. He heard the sudden catch of her breath as he teased her nipples with his thumbs, his mouth sliding next to her ear.  _Think some Shelley ought to do the trick._

“Swift as a spirit hastening to his task, of glory and of good, the sun sprang forth,” he murmured, delighting in her shiver as his breath vibrated against the delicate skin of her ear. The smell of Buffy’s arousal – a pungent, sweet tang – met his nostrils, and he grinned. Who’d have ever bloody thought poetry would do it for the likes of her? He was pretty sure his stiffy pressed into her backside wasn’t hurting the issue, either. He ground his erection further into her and she gave a small little gasp that went straight to the tip of his cock, hardening his want into delicious agony.

“Rejoicing in his splendour, and the mask of darkness fell from the awakened Earth,” he continued with a low growl, sliding his hands back to his mate’s waist and pushing her very firmly against the tub wall, drawing her arms up above her head and forcing her palms flat against the tile. Her heart rate increased, all of her intoxicating blood flushing to the surface as she realized his exact intent. _That’s right, sweetheart, gonna fuck you right and proper, just like this._

Convinced she was going to remain as he positioned her, he pressed lazy kisses into her shoulder, smirking. “The smokeless altars of the mountain snows flamed above crimson clouds,” he intoned huskily, firmly spreading her legs apart, to her low moans. He watched the spread of her arse cheeks follow the motion, revealing her sweet, wet cunny. The perfume of her desire increased tenfold and he barely suppressed the hungry inclination to dive to his knees and bury his face in her.

Instead he let his fingers trail down and plunge right into her quim; first one, then two, to her crying mewls.

“Oh, yes,” she murmured breathlessly, squirming, trying to impale herself further on him.

“Shhh,” he said, biting her shoulder with blunt teeth. Her pussy fluttered around him and she whimpered.

“And at the birth of light,” he continued hoarsely, withdrawing his fingers, to Buffy’s desperate protests, “the ocean's orison arose.”

He took his drenched fingers and coated his cock with them before repeating the process again, but ending with his fingers stroking the tight, starred bud of her rear.

“ _Spiiike_ ,” she keened.

He grinned, pushing her harder against the wall and spreading her cheeks. He left the tip of his cock to rest there, right against her rear entrance, as her front stood mashed against the wall, her chest heaving.

“To which,” he continued almost gaspingly, as he slowly, agonizingly pushed his cock into her bud, stretching her and tightening everything against his cock, like the most bloody heavenly hole in existence, “the birds tempered their matin lay.”

He thrust into her entirely then and they both shuddered. Buffy whimpered again, her arms starting to slide down the wall, almost unconsciously. He caught them as they fell and held them back up, covered by his own, his chest tight against her back. His cock was nearly burning with the heat of her, every inch of it throbbing in warning. His entire body screamed at him to move. He did then, with a cursing grunt, plunging and out of her at an angle that threatened to make her scream. She stifled the noise against the tile, trembling, as he pounded into her. Everything in him was covered in her heat and her perfume and cries.

“All flowers in field,” he growled as he thrust hard and deep, his balls slapping against her cheeks, his body elsewise drenched by the showerhead, “or forest which unclose their trembling eyelids to the kiss of day.”

 _Bloody fuck_ , he thought, clenching his jaw. She never ceased to eat him alive. He was never going to make it to the end of the sodding poem at this rate. With a grunt, he slammed into her harder, and she did scream then, a high-pitched sound that she tried to swallow against the wall.

“Swinging their censers in the element, with orient incense,” he rasped, holding both of her hands in one of his own and slipping the other down to stroke her clit with furious circles, “lit by the new ray burned slow and inconsumaby and– oh,  _bloody fuck_!”

Buffy clenched around him viciously, her cunny spasming wildly as she came and her ass tightening in just the way that lit every single nerve in his cock. He was a bloody goner. With a groan, he felt everything tighten as his head went light and spiraling; and his body surged, his seed spilling jerkily into her ass.

“Christ,” he muttered, panting, as he leaned against her and let the shocks of orgasm shiver through them both.

“Mhmm,” Buffy murmured breathlessly. Her words turned to a gasp a second later as he slipped his softened prick from her. She turned around, her eyes bright with pleasure, her expression solemn.

“I need you again,” she whispered.

And bloody hell, but there wasn’t a time where those words didn’t make his prick rise. He turned off the shower, stepping out of the tub and lifting her out a moment after him, to her bemused disappointment.

“Gonna fuck you in bed til we’re both too tired to move, yeah?”

A devious smile lit her face then. The sodding minx. “You could always have me on the floor here first.”

He raised a brow. “That how you want it?”

“I just want you. You know that.”

He didn’t bother to answer. He just tugged her to the floor, catching her head as he swept her down. Her wet golden hair spread like a halo on the floor, her chest heaving and flushed. His perfect golden goddess.

“Could see you like this forever,” he murmured, everything in him filling with love and lust.

“Just see?” she asked softly, looking at him pointedly as she wound a hand across her collarbone, gently stroking her skin down to the valley of her breasts.

He grinned, pulling her legs abruptly up into the air, to her startled gasp, and settling his cock at her dripping mound. So wet and throbbing, just for him. God, what did he ever do to deserve this perfect woman? “Can do lots else while I’m looking,” he growled, plunging into her hard. He bent and covered her mouth with his as he fucked her mercilessly, stifling both of their moans.

“Keep going,” she gasped between thrusts, “please."

“‘Til I‘m done,” he promised, grunting, knowing he’d fuck her until they both collapsed. After all, he hadn’t been done in a bloody century. Chances were good he’d be halfway to eternity before the idea was even worth a passing consideration.


	8. Sunnydale-at-Large: Regrouping (Part 2)

“Guys. I think I’m a superhero,” Jonathan said that night, as they gathered in the basement to unveil a limited edition Captain Picard figurine. He smirked, preening. “I’ve got like crazy time travel powers.”

Andrew rounded on him in clear offense. “No, you don’t, that’s totally what I have! And you’re not supposed to tell people you’re a superhero. That’s the whole point of a secret identity.” He pursed his lips, sighing dramatically. “And now my cover’s blown too. I guess I’ll have to deal with the pressured celebrity life of being a superhero out in the open.”

Warren just rolled his eyes. “The time travel happened to all of us, you dinguses.” He leaned back in the plastic folding chair, smiling a slow, devious smile. “And I have an idea.”

 

***

 

Mrs. Shinagan at the Espresso Pump usually had a bright yellow aura, kind of shimmery, like a happy bouncing sun. It always made Tara want to giggle (although she settled for warm smiles). Today, however, the woman’s aura was glaringly dimmed, shot through with streaks of violent purple. It pulsed in a strange, crooked rhythm, as if it was trying to settle and couldn’t quite get there.

The rest of the people in the coffee shop were equally off-balance, in a way that made the blond witch dizzy and a bit nauseous. Everyone in Sunnydale, so far as she could See, was suffering the effects of their cross-dimensional future experiences. And yet, very few of them were willing to mention it. The bartender Anya had cornered in The Bronze seemed to be the rule around their little Hellmouth town, as Tara’s cautious questions had all led to nervous laughter, outright denial, or fleeing.

She wanted to be proud of her girlfriend for her time travel accomplishments… but how could she be, when the redhead had inadvertently caused so much pain?

“I moved forward in an, um, straight-ish line – well as straight a line as a dimension can go in – which isn’t even technically accurate, but it’s way easier to describe it like that,” Willow had said in a single breath in Buffy and Spike’s living room. At the continued stares, she rushed ahead with, “But that’s because I knew where I was going. Everyone else was kind of… left to wander. So you all went on a wander-y walk around the universe.” Willow finished with a kind of nervous giggle, which usually Tara found adorable, but right then had just left a heavy dose of dismay sitting in her stomach.

Tara sighed, pausing on the street. Being wander-y was exactly what she was doing right now. She didn’t want to go back to Xander and Anya’s apartment yet. Not when she didn’t know how to face Willow without bursting into tears (again). Willow had  _lied_  to her. Her girlfriend’s continued attempts to apologize over the last three days hadn’t made anything better.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to lie to you,” Willow said pleadingly yesterday through the closed bathroom door, as Tara sat on the edge of the tub – the only place she could safely sit and think in the apartment.

“I never meant for that to happen.”

“I promise I’ll never do it again.”

But the damage was already done.

At the revelation of Willow’s actions in Buffy’s home, Tara hadn’t really known a single word to say. And yet, they’d all turned to look at her, almost in unison, as if she should have some kind of meaningful revelation. Faced with that many intent faces and swarming, angry auras, Tara was ashamed to say that she’d simply taken one of the Sunnydale citizen routes and fled.

Why had Willow lied to her?  _Maybe because I made her feel like I’d be angry if she tried it. If she told me she wanted to try it._  But she wouldn’t have been! Apprehensive, certainly. But she would have tried her best to help make sure everything was done correctly (and maybe strategically probe Mr. Giles for some thoughts) before Willow enacted something so earth-shatteringly powerful. _I made her feel like she couldn’t share with me_ , Tara thought in desperation. Willow really hadn’t been trying to hurt anyone at all. Except there was the voice in the back of her head that reminded her Willow should have known better. If she didn’t feel like she could share with Tara, why hadn’t she at least shared with  _someone_?

Crossing the street to check in at the Magic Box, Tara was unable to avoid the reply her mind gave: Because Willow knew it was probably wrong.

 

***

 

_I can fix this. I know I can._

Willow sat uneasily in Xander and Anya’s apartment, anxiously rocking on her borrowed bed. Xander had half-heartedly assured her that everyone would forget all about the time travel incident after a little bit of time (and wasn’t that just like the most ironic-y statement of the week? Time to get over time).

“Give them a week, Wils,” Xander had said gently two days ago, as they sat on his couch. He paused then, wincing, and Willow knew he was thinking about Giles’s rather apoplectic expression. “Or a month. Maybe a month. Then we’ll all be back to normal – erm, well, whatever passes for normal on the Hellmouth these days.”

But Willow knew better. She’d been to the future, after all. And those Scoobies had, if possible, seemed even angrier than her present day group. They’d been awfully tight-lipped about it, though, and her future self hadn’t been around to ask. They wouldn’t tell her why that was a thing, either. Had the future Scoobies cast her out for one measly spell gone wrong? Everything pointed to ‘yes’; all but confirmed by Buffy’s visit yesterday. Her once-best friend had just sat on the edge of the bed with her for a long moment, clearly trying to choose her words carefully.

“I am sorry,” Willow had said quietly, even though she was terribly tired of saying the words. Wasn’t a hundred times enough?

“I know.” A pause. “Spike and I have some friends in Paris. Witch friends. I think – we think – they could teach you a lot about magic.”

Indignant anger flooded her. “I already know a lot about magic, Buffy! I just went to the freaking future!”

Buffy had seemed entirely unaffected by her outburst, and again Willow remembered that this wasn’t her Buffy anymore. “I know you do, Wils,” she’d said slowly, as if talking to a cornered animal. “But there’s always more to learn. Just think about it, okay?”

Willow had managed to nod, swallowing the desire to snap at the blonde Slayer again. After a full minute of silence, Buffy had gotten up and left.

Now she sat with some horribly choking  _thing_  clawing at her throat. This was not okay. This was so far from okay they needed to install a rest stop between the two. Willow chewed her lip in thought. If letting time elapse wasn’t going to do the trick in terms of Scooby forgiveness, maybe she could go to the past and stop herself from ever doing the spell in the first place? No, she thought regretfully, that was likely to end up in all sorts of paradox type land. And the last thing she needed was even angrier Scoobies breathing down her neck.

_I wish they would all just forget about it._

A trickle of memory lit at the thought and she scrambled from the bed to dig at the stack of magic books piled in the corner. Frantically, she dug through one of the volumes, frowning, until she found the one she wanted.  _Tabula Rasa._

Yes, she thought in relief. Yes, that would do nicely.

Everything was going to be okay.

_I can fix this._

 

 

***

 

Faith shifted impatiently in her chair at the Magic Box as Giles droned on, a slight twinge still pulsing in her knee. Evil!Faith had been a tricky bitch. Faith’d almost had her, though, right before she’d been booted back to Sunnyhell. That irked her immensely, almost more than the initial travel itself. Because, eh, the travel hadn’t been that bad, overall. Willow had turned white as a sheet upon realizing she’d been responsible for Faith’s altercation, but the Slayer had just shrugged. She’d been where the redhead was, after all. Doing stupid crap. Making all the goody-goodies mad as hell. She knew Willow wasn’t her biggest fan, but the witch could probably use someone to talk to eventually, when the others calmed their shit a bit. Maybe she’d stop by Xander’s tomorrow.

“So we’ve got a group of demons trying to raise their big man on campus,” Faith said, when Giles bothered to take a breath. “Not seeing the massive deal here. We find. We slay. We go party.”

Giles cleared his throat in faint annoyance. “The ‘deal’, Faith, is that these aren’t just any cult worshippers. The preliminary spells they’ve cast for this raising quite, ah, inhibits our ability to find them.”

Buffy frowned from where she was leaning against the training room doorway. “Not even by locator spell?”

Tara shook her head gently. “N-no. The spell isn’t on them, it’s on us. We could locate them and not know it because they’re sort of made the whole place blind. It’s a-an area of effect spell.”

Spike growled from near the counter. “Getting bloody tired of spells being put on me.” Tara flinched and Spike’s face softened. “But ta, pet, for the explanation.”

Faith leaned back in her chair. “If they’re doing that, guessing they need to be out in the open to raise dear old dad. Somewhere we’d see them pretty quickly otherwise.”

Giles nodded at her with an expression of pleased approval that still surprised the Slayer. It was a nicer expression than her actual family had ever bothered with. “I believe you have hit the proverbial nail on the head, Faith.”

Xander looked thoughtful, glancing at Tara. “So it’s kind of like what you did with the Lei-Ach guys last year? Making us not able to see demons?”

Tara flushed. “Y-yes.”

There was a small chuckle from Buffy. “I’d forgotten about that." She looked at her husband mischievously. “Wonder if that would make me invisible too, these days?”

Spike smirked at her. “Could have a spot of fun with that.”

Xander made a face, turning abruptly to Thomas. “How do you even stand living with them?”

Thomas grinned a bit wryly. “You get used to it after a couple decades.”

Anya shrugged from where she was counting money at the register. “I find it very refreshing. Much better than the unresolved sexual tension that they used to have going on.” She glanced between the married pair thoughtfully. “We should compare notes sometime. I know Xander has less stamina but–”

Xander made a loud, strangled noise. “ _Ahn!_ ”

Anya sighed, shrugging at Buffy. “Maybe later?”

Buffy glanced over at Xander’s crimson face, her expression highly amused. “Definitely later.”

 _God damn, B, you gained a sense of humor in the last century._  Faith chuckled lowly.  _Knew you had it in you._

Across the table, Thomas threw her his own mischievous glance and Faith felt her body heat with it. Spike glanced narrowly her way, nostrils flaring as he watched her and his nephew. Faith just stared back at him challengingly, a small smirk playing around her lips.  _Oh, like you haven’t heard me sneak in his window, Spike._  Thomas was currently inhabiting Buffy’s old room and – between the choice of Giles’s apartment or there– the Summers residence had been a no brainer, particularly since Buffy and Spike were often out or engaged in their own activities. The only one they really had to watch out for was Dawn, but summer had her cavorting with her own little teenybopper friends now that Buffy was no longer in possession of the ‘clingy mother of the year’ award. So Faith just raised her brow and jutted her chin out at the vampire. After a moment, Spike snorted and looked away, shaking his head.

“Can’t we just, you know, get unspelled?” Xander asked in exasperation.

Tara frowned. “That would take a lot more power than I have.” Her face scrunched up in a way that managed to make her look like she was in physical pain. “We should call Willow.”

“I think she’s done enough damage for now,” Giles retorted sharply.

Buffy sighed, clearly headed into peacekeeping mode. A general herding the troops into cohesion. It was easy to see how she’d earned the title – how she was still the real leader. Faith had no illusions about that. But the fact that Buffy gave her sister Slayer whatever leeway she wanted, that Buffy  _respected_  her, that Faith had a place inside their little Scooby gang… all of that was plenty.

“Shutting Willow out isn’t going to help us,” Buffy said firmly, gazing steadily at Giles. “What happened sucked. There’s no getting around that. But she’s still a part of the team, and we need her.”

Giles sighed, waving wearily into the air in front of him. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.” He glanced at the phone on the wall distastefully. “I shall ring her and then we can… can prepare."

Great. More waiting. Faith sat up straighter in her chair. “Any ‘in the now’ options?”

Anya made a small sound of remembrance. “Oh!” She strode over to a nearby shelf and tugged down three pendants. “I almost forgot we had these.” She frowned at the price tags. “They should be priced higher.”

Spike chuckled. “And those underpriced baubles do what exactly, pet?”

Anya regarded the group with a victorious smile. “They’re like magical EMP’s. They’ll nullify any magic that might affect the wearer.” She pursed her lips. “They won’t do much against, say, a lightning bolt striking your head, but this kind of spell? Definitely.”

Faith slapped her hands on her knees. “Hot damn. Good find, Anya.”

The ex-demon beamed at her. “Thank you, Faith.”

“Three of them,” Spike mused. He glanced at Buffy. “You, me, and cowgirl?”

Buffy bit her lip in thought and then slowly shook her head. “No, I’d better stay.” She didn’t continue, but there wasn’t really any need. Willow was coming and the general had to keep the troops in line. And if Buffy was staying, it went without saying that Spike would be too.

Faith stood with a shrug, taking the pendants from Anya’s pro-offered hand. “No problem, B. I’ll find Al and Tildy.”

Xander gave a snort of laughter. “I can’t believe they let you call them that.”

Faith smirked. “They like me.” She nodded at her sister Slayer. “If our cult guys are out in the open, we should be able to track them in no time.”

Buffy nodded, reaching down to where an axe lay casually against the wall. She handed it to Faith solemnly. “Be careful. More than ten and you wait for back-up. I don’t think breaking the spell will take long.”

“You’re no fun, B.”

“I like my sister Slayer alive.”

Faith laughed easily, swinging the axe over her shoulder as she headed toward the door. “Don’t plan on being any other way, chica.”

 

***

 

“For all those who know I travelled through time, this I char. Let Lethe's Bramble do its chore. Purge their minds of memories grim, of pains from recent slights and sins. When the fire goes out, the crystal turns black, the spell will be cast. Tabula Rasa, Tabula Rasa, Tabula Rasa,” Willow murmured, watching the Lethe’s Bramble burn over the gas stove in Xander’s apartment. She had just pulled out the blackening crystal from the flames when the phone rang.

It was Giles. Trouble with demons. Excitement filled her. Now she’d get to see the spell take effect right away.

Willow smiled and tugged on her boots, tucking the crystal safely in her jeans pocket. She left the smoldering Bramble on the stove, the rest of her stock of the magical flower resting nearby in a plastic bag.

As she hurried out the door, she missed a spark from the single bloom spitting out and hitting the plastic bag, setting the whole thing alight.


	9. Tabula Rasa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With some dialogue adapted from S6.8 Tabula Rasa.

Buffy woke blearily on… someone’s floor? Well, geez, that was a weird place to sleep. More importantly, it had a comfort level of negative two. How had she decided tile was a good mattress substitute? Something flashed in her mind, warning her that she’d slept in far worse places. Only, she couldn’t think of any at the moment.

Frowning, Buffy pulled herself to her feet with a groan, blinking as she took in the room full of people passed out… in a store?

There were a couple of dark haired guys and blonde gals stirring on the small table; an older, tweedy guy slumped against the register counter; some peroxide blond guy with a trench coat on her side of the counter; and a redhead woman near the steps in the middle of the place. Weirdness to the nth degree.

“Hello?” she half-whispered. She had the urge to repeat it again with a little more oomph, but refrained for the time being, as even her low question seemed to be enough to startle most of the crew. In particular, one of the dark haired guys sat up like a shot.

“Wha!” He blinked blearily around, jumping to his feet with a kind of panicked speed that made her head spin. “Huh? Where am I! Who are you people!”

“Oh, bloody hell,” the peroxide blond guy said with a groan, sitting up. He was British? Buffy paused. Was  _she_  British? Wait… wasn’t that kind of something you were supposed to know about yourself? She didn’t feel British, exactly, but then it wasn’t like every Brit went around draped in a Union Jack, either. Her attention snapped back to the blond Brit. Nope, he was definitely flag-free. And still she kept looking anyway. His presence was magnetic, like a weird shiver on the back of her neck. It wasn’t hard to figure out why, especially now that he was awake. The man was gorgeous. Like drop-dead sexy, with sun bronzed skin and eyes that were almost unnaturally blue. The long black coat and bleached hair was a little Billy Idol wannabe, but he pulled it off. Her eyes lingered on the steep lines of his cheekbones, looking away abruptly when his gaze flickered in her direction. She stared down determinedly at her very sensible jeans and t-shirt, trying to ignore the light chuckle that floated her way.  _Right, we’ll just pretend I wasn’t ogling a complete stranger._

Meanwhile, the dark haired guy was still freaking out. “Seriously, this isn’t funny! Am I on a prank show? Is this a psych test? Am I getting paid for this?”

“Good lord, man. Pull yourself together,” said the older guy by the counter, adjusting his glasses. Another British guy? Huh. They must be in Europe somewhere.  _Well, I do speak French_ , Buffy considered.  _And German. Kind of. And really bad Spanish. I think._  (How many languages did she speak, exactly?)

The redhead had stumbled to her feet now and was watching them all warily. “Wait, he’s not the only one! I don’t know who any of you are, either.”

One of the blonde women at the table sat up, a slim woman with doe eyes and a sharp face. “You are all equally unfamiliar to me, too.”

Buffy chewed the bottom of her lip. “I don’t know anyone either, but I also… um, I’m not sure I know who  _I_  am.”

There was a short pause as they all looked at each other.

The older man sighed. “Quite.” He surveyed the room. “Does anyone remember anything?”

Everyone shook their heads and Buffy felt a strange sense of relief. At least she wasn’t alone in this weirdness.

The other dark haired man, a slim younger guy with a killer jawline, eyed them thoughtfully. “Perhaps we all got a bit sloshed?”

Another Brit. Okay, that sealed it. They were in England. Probably. Buffy scrunched up her nose. None of the others seemed British though, including herself. Although, she had a strange awareness of London in the back of her head, so familiar that she could probably draw a map if questioned. But then… there were a lot of places that seemed vaguely familiar. Like Korea. And Malta. And Peru. Ugh, well that cleared up absolutely nothing. At this point, she was either a world travelling executive or a bonafied hobo. The ‘she’d slept in worse places’ feeling didn’t bode well on that front.

“I don’t see any booze,” said the sharp blonde woman. She touched the back of her head experimentally. “I don’t feel any head bumps.”

“Maybe we were drugged,” the freaked dark haired guy suggested, starting to pace a bit wildly. “And maybe this is some kind of horror movie set up and we have to find our way out and–”

The sexy blond Brit laughed at him, low and rumbling, as he pulled himself to his feet. “Chrissake, mate, put a lid on it.” He arched a brow, pointing to the front door. “Pretty sure you could just walk out if it struck your fancy.” He made a small noise then, blinking at the hand he was pointing with. “Oi! Got a wedding ring here. Any birds wearing one?” He paused, surveying the men in the room. “S’pose could be one of you blokes, too, but doesn’t seem right.”

Buffy glanced down at her left hand, not really expecting anything. Her eyes lit up at the plain gold band and emerald ring she found there. “Oh! It’s me!”  _Maybe I’m not a hobo, after all._

The blond grinned at her, eyeing her from top to toe with an appreciative gaze. “Yeah? Married well then, didn’t I?”

Buffy flushed, although she wasn’t exactly sure why. Oh, right. Because she was apparently married to this gorgeous hunk of man. And _he_  married well? Did that mean she was pretty? Buffy stood up a little straighter.

“Oo!” This shout came from the sharp blonde woman. “I have a ring, too.”

Buffy’s face fell.  _But I want to be married to the sexy Brit._

To her immense satisfaction, the blond Brit looked equally disappointed at the revelation. “Well, alright, ducks, let’s compare, shall we?”

The three of them gathered near the table and stuck out their ring hands. The others in the room watched curiously from the side.

“It’s definitely you, pet,” the man told Buffy huskily, the dark timbre of his voice sending a shiver down her spine. His blue eyes were ridiculous bright, and right now, smoldering.  _God, I really hope I’m the type that has a lot of hot sex with my husband._ She paused. Considering him, she really didn’t think there was likely to be any other kind.

She nodded slowly, knowing her eyes were riveted on him. “Looks that way.”

The other woman looked rather put out. “Fiddlesticks. Who belongs to me then?”

“I think yours is an engagement ring,” Buffy told her helpfully.

The woman eyed it speculatively. “And a nice one. My future husband must have very good taste.” She paused. “Or I made him get me exactly what I wanted. That seems like something I would do.”

The dark haired Brit at the table grinned. “A jolly good trait in a woman.”

The blonde woman’s eyes lit up. “You think so? Maybe you’re mine.”

The man looked rather startled at that, but he nodded assent after a moment. “Suppose we were sitting next to each other, luv.”

The blonde woman beamed at him and rejoined him at the table, positioning herself right in his lap. Her apparent fiancé grinned at her forwardness, looping an easy arm around her waist. Yep, they seemed like a matched pair, all right.

The blonde woman turned to smile at Buffy. “Apparently we both like British men.”

Buffy’s apparent husband chuckled. “She married me, doesn’t mean she likes me.”

Buffy put her hands on her hips indignantly. “What? You think I’m some– some kind of gold digger?” Hobo she could deal with. But skanky swindler? That was just insulting.

The man – her husband – turned a twinkling gaze on her that made her weak in the knees. Well, that was an entirely unfair weapon. “Was just teasing, pet. Sure my bloody wallet isn’t why you stick around.” His mouth quirked into a suggestive smirk as he stepped closer, invading her personal space in a way that left her breathless. It was almost predatory, the way he was eyeing her. “Can think of other reasons.”

“Wallet!” the redhead woman exclaimed, causing everyone to startle. Buffy nearly jumped, the hungry gaze between her and her apparent husband broken, to her immense irritation. “IDs! Licenses!”

At that, everyone started rifling around their clothing. Buffy felt around for anything in her jeans pockets – was she the type to carry a purse? – but no wallet was in attendance, and there wasn’t a random purse on the ground that she could see. Damn. One more point in the hobo category.

“No worries, pet,” her husband said gently, catching her disappointed sigh. “I don’t have anything on me, either.”

Buffy smiled up at him gratefully. He flashed her an unexpectedly tentative smile then and slowly twined his fingers with hers in a way that seemed maddeningly familiar. His skin was unusually cool to the touch, as if he’d been holding a cold drink. Huh.  _I wonder if I’m a good wife who helps him keep those fingers warm at night?_ Buffy nearly rolled her eyes at herself. God, was she always this horny? She wondered if being able to remember sex with her husband would make things better or worse. Was he the reason she’d slept in worse places? If so, she wasn’t sure she minded anymore.

“Hey!” said the freakout guy, staring at his wallet. “That’s me. I’m real. I’m Alexander Harris.” He grinned. “I’m a nice looking guy.”

The redhead snorted, pulling out her own ID. “I’m Willow Rosenberg. Willow? Huh, funny name.”

The other blonde, the one who hadn’t said anything yet, smiled shyly. “I think it’s pretty.”

The redhead – Willow – smiled warmly at her. “Thanks. What’s your ID say?”

“I’m Tara.”

And the introductions went around like that for the rest of the room. Apparently everyone except Buffy and her husband had an ID (or something that at least had a name on it), which was a bit irksome, if nothing else. Maybe she and her husband had just left their IDs in the car. If they even owned a car. Buffy paused. She had the odd feeling she didn’t own a car. Something about the thought of driving made her incredibly anxious. And why did the unbidden idea of a carriage make her feel much better? Had she grown up Amish? Buffy shook away her thoughts with a frown, turning back to the room and their merry band of amnesiacs.

There was a moment of drama when the dark haired Brit – Thomas – found a plane ticket for next week in his jacket, and his fiancée – Anya – looked positively stricken.

“You’re leaving me?”

Thomas touched her cheek gently. “Don’t think so, luv. University ID, right? I must just be going back to school.”

Anya brightened, obviously relieved. “That must be it.”

“Hold on a tick, mate,” Buffy’s husband said. “What’s the airport you’re leaving from?”

“Uh.” Thomas peered at the ticket. “Los Angeles.”

Okay. So they were in California. Weird.

Buffy twisted the gold band on her finger absently, pausing as she realized what she was doing. It felt like an ages old habit, and that was strangely comforting. She stared down at her hand thoughtfully.  _I wonder..._  In a fit of inspiration, she removed her ring, and saw that there was an inscription written on the inside.  _I swear. Love, William._

"Huh." She showed her apparent husband the ring. "It looks like your name is William."

Her husband – William – perked up at that, running a hand down his chest in obvious consideration. "I like it," he declared. "It's a good, strong name." He paused then, smiling. "Bet I have my own inscription then, pet." He twisted off his ring and Buffy watched his eyes widen comically.

"Oh, no," she moaned. "I'm named something terrible, aren't I? Like Mildred or… or Francine."

William met her eyes apologetically. "S'not quite that bad."

"Not  _quite_? Oh, geez. Well, lay it on me."

"Your name is Buffy."

" _Buffy?_ " She balked. "What kind of insane parents name their child  _Buffy_?"

"Yours, apparently, luv."

“Ugh. Well remind me to have a talk with them the next time I see them.”

“Don’t reckon you’d know who they are, at this point.”

“Right,” said the tweedy man – Rupert. “I believe that to be the crux of our current predicament.” He frowned over his spectacles. “A mass bout of amnesia seems to be rather out of the ordinary, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah,” Willow said. “And look at this place. Look at all this stuff. Weird things in jars. Weird books.” She picked up a paperback book from the counter. “ _Magic for Beginners_?”

Tara’s eyes lit up. “Oh! We’re in a magic shop. Like a real magic shop.”

Buffy blinked. “We’re in a  _magic shop_? As in, a place where you do spells and pull rabbits out of hats? This is an actual kind of store?”

Rupert scoffed from the counter. “Hardly! Magic is all balderdash and chicanery.” He peered around. “This must be a, ah, tourist trap of some kind.”

Buffy shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter.” She frowned thoughtfully at the group, an odd sense of protective purpose filling her. For no real reason she could ascertain, she felt responsible for this band of strangers. Maybe she had been the captain of a hobo shantytown once and something had rubbed off. And, wow, she really needed to stop with the whole hobo train of thought. “We need to get help. Perhaps a hospital?”

William looked at her approvingly, reaching out to wrap an arm around her waist. “Sounds like a good idea, luv. Not sure standing in a shop’s going to do us much good.”

Buffy smiled warmly at him, letting his arms draw her near. He was, she noted happily, just the right height for her to rest in the crook of his shoulder. “You’re a very supportive husband,” she noted a bit mischievously, with a slight purr to her voice.

William raised a brow at her, one that was neatly bisected by a large scar.  _Huh, wonder how that happened?_  Desire and amusement danced in his blue eyes, quirking up the edges of his mouth. “Hope you still think that when we’re all sorted.” He paused, fixing her with an absurdly attractive hooded gaze that sent a jolting thrill through her body. “Bet I support you in all sorts of ways.”

Alexander made a small noise of disgust. “Can you two get a room please?”

William glanced at the man, smirking. “This looks like a room to me, mate.”

Buffy laughed, eyeing her husband speculatively. “Maybe we’re newlyweds?”  _That would explain my intense desire to jump your bones right now._

William seemed to consider that seriously. “You do look a tad young,” he said slowly.

Buffy blinked, self-consciously touching her hair. “Do I?” She frowned. “I don’t… feel young. Does that make sense?” In fact, she felt strangely old. If asked her age off the cuff, she would probably have landed in the hundreds somewhere. And that was, well… stupid.

Anya made a sound of understanding from her position on Thomas’s lap. “Old soul.”

“Guys,” Willow said plaintively, “can we save the mushy goodness for when we’re not all Jane and John Doe?”

“But we’re not,” Alexander objected. “I’m Alexander!”

Thomas chuckled. “A literal bloke, isn’t he?”

Anya nodded, running a hand through her fiancé’s tousled hair. “Very, honey.”

“Right then,” Rupert said decisively, stepping out from behind the counter and heading toward the front shop door. “Off to the hospital it is.” He paused. “Although, I have no earthly idea which direction to go. Or how to get there.”

Tara rose from her seat, biting her lip. She was incredibly soft spoken, but there was something peaceful about her presence that Buffy found she liked immediately. “I-I’m sure we can ask someone?”

Willow nodded support. “Have to be people here, right? Especially if we’re in LA. Or, um, near it somewhere?”

“Well then, onward, kiddies,” William said, motioning to the door. “Not getting any younger standing here.”

Rupert raised a brow. “Just who are you calling ‘kiddie’? I’m old enough to be your father. I think.” The man paused, his face growing slack with realization. He glanced between William and Thomas. “Oh good lord. We’re all British.”

Alexander snickered. “Okay, even I knew that already.”

Rupert pursed his lips in irritation. “No, I simply mean…” he eyed the two other Brits consideringly. “You don’t suppose… that we’re related?”

Thomas glanced at his plane ticket again. “Bit of paper says I’m Thomas Delancey. You’re Rupert Giles? Don’t think I’m your son, then.”

Everyone turned to William, who scoffed. “Well, don’t bloody well look at me! I'm barely old enough to be his sodding brother.”

William and Rupert regarded each other warily.

“Older brother?” Rupert suggested.

William snorted. “Bloody unlikely. Don’t sound alike, do we? Betting I’m mates with Thomas here. Or cousins or summat. He’s probably a nephew of yours.”

“You do seem like my kind of bloke,” Thomas said with a grin.

Anya's face lit up and she looked expectantly at Buffy. “Oh! Maybe we’re best girlfriends then. Soon to be related, after all.”

Buffy nodded, something feeling warm light in her chest. Family felt right. She had the nagging feeling that she had a very large family.

“Sure,” she offered amicably, letting a real smile draw across her face.

“Off we go then,” Willow said merrily. “We’re off to see the Wizard! O-or, you know, the doctor.” She gave their shop one last speculative look. “Although, wizard might actually be more accurate here.”

“It’s just a bloody joke shop,” Rupert muttered, following her up the stairs.

Buffy made to move forward as well, but William caught her arm and held her back. At her questioning look, he mouthed  _back of the queue._

Confusion filled her for a second, until William pushed her firmly against a bookcase, his blue eyes dark and intent. And was it her imagination or was there a glint of amber in his irises?

“You are too bloody gorgeous to not taste at least once before we go adventuring,” he murmured near her mouth in a low, promising growl. Guh.

Buffy swallowed shakily, heat pooling dangerously in her belly. She had a sudden, terrible urge to rip off his clothes right then and there. Something told her that her husband had one heckuva body. “Do you think we’re sex fiends?”

That seemed to startle her husband, who blinked once and then snorted merrily. “Want me like I do you, eh?”

At her quick nod, he smirked at her, some absurd motion that included flicking his tongue behind his teeth. Desire flared brighter, stealing her breath.

“Nah,” he said huskily. “Just think we’re bloody newlyweds, like you said.” He glanced quickly at their unknown band of associates and she could read his expression as clearly as if he’d said it aloud.  _Only a few more seconds before they notice._

Determined to make use of their fleeting time, Buffy tugged him close by the lapels of his duster and smashed her lips against his almost bruisingly. It was only after the fact that she spared a worried thought for,  _Oh no, what if he doesn’t like it this rough_ , but her concerns were swept away a second later by his heady moan.

And damn, but her husband could kiss. His mouth was cool and firm, and his tongue was wicked, teasing the inside of her mouth in a way that went straight to her clit. No wonder her body wanted him. Even if her memory was taking a vacation, her libido sure as hell wasn’t.

“Bloody right,” he breathed huskily, pulling apart for a moment. “Got me a wildcat of a wife.” And then he was kissing her again, his hands sliding up her shirt to fondle her breasts through the thin fabric of her bra.

“Oh. My. God,” came Alexander’s annoyed voice. “Seriously, do we need to separate you guys?”

William broke apart from her with a grin, turning to eye the man with triumphant amusement. “Oh sod off. If you were married to a girl like mine, I’d like to see you keep your hands to yourself.”

Alexander's gaze flickered nervously between him and Buffy. “I’m not sure what answer isn’t going to get me punched by a jealous husband.”

Buffy laughed and gently pushed William toward the door, to his pouting protest. “No punching. Hospital time.” She twined her fingers back with her husband’s and he looked at her with easy affection. It felt right to them both, she could tell, holding each other this way.

Just as Rupert reached the front door, it swung open of its own accord, revealing a very startled brunette woman… who had an axe slung over her shoulder?

 _Oh_ , was Buffy’s first thought.  _Maybe we are in a horror movie set, after all._


	10. Tabula Inscripta

The brunette gave them all an odd look as she paused in the shop doorway (Seriously?  _They_ weren’t the ones holding an axe!). Before anyone could say a word, a lanky man with short-cropped auburn hair came up behind the brunette. He was followed by a woman of clear Mediterranean heritage with long dark locks and a bombshell body.

 _God, all the women here are stupidly pretty_ , Buffy thought in exasperation, eyes flitting from the axe-wielding brunette to the model-esque Mediterranean woman. She inched closer to William and he threw her an amused look, as if he knew exactly where her thoughts had gone.

“Heading out, gang?” the brunette woman said in a tone of surprised amusement. “I know we weren’t gone long enough to call out the Scooby search party.”

“Oh, thank god,” Anya exclaimed with clear relief. “You know us!”

The brunette raised a brow, glancing back at the couple behind her. The couple looked just as baffled.  _Well, I guess that makes all of us._

Willow eyed the new arrivals nervously. “Erm, you  _do_ know us, don’t you?”

The brunette sighed. “Damnit, Willow, what did you do now?”

“Me?!” The redhead squeaked. “What makes you think I did anything?”

“Yeah, lady, lay off,” Alexander said pugnaciously.

“The young woman in question has done nothing worthy of reproach,” Rupert added firmly. Then, wincing, he amended, “Well, in the last quarter hour, at least.”

“Young woman?” The brunette frowned at them, her confusion melting away into some realization. “Son of a bitch. You guys don’t recognize anyone.”

“Including our sodding selves,” William said dryly.

Rupert pursed his lips. “Indeed. Our memories have apparently, ah, gone by the wayside.”

“We found IDs with our n-names, though,” Tara offered helpfully.

The brunette sighed, stepping further inside as the others scooted back into the shop. “Freaking Hellmouth.” She glanced back at the pair behind her, thoughtfully touching some small pendant that hung around her neck. “You guys are still all with it, though?”

“Oui, Tueuse,” the man said swiftly.

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Killer? Did you just call her  _killer_? That’s rude.”

The Mediterranean woman threw her an amused glance. “Pas du tout.”  _Not at all._

Buffy eyed the woman’s axe again, wariness creeping through her. What if ‘killer’ wasn’t just some horrible nickname? Perhaps just as worrisome was the weird sensation of something crawling on the back of her neck, throwing up all sorts of alarm bells. It was, she realized in confusion, almost the way her husband felt, minus the whole lust factor. Something wasn’t adding up (not that, she admitted, the rest of everything wasn’t clear as mud right now). “Just who are you exactly?” she demanded. “How do we know we can trust you?”

The brunette woman eyed her for a long moment. “Because I’m your sister,” she said finally, dryly.

Buffy blinked, a smile finding her. “Sister? Oh! Really?” Her expression faded into a frown. “What did mom name _you_?”

That earned her a raised brow. “Name’s Faith.”

“Well, what the hell. Why did you get the normal name?”

William chuckled. “Guessing you got offloaded with some family name better off forgotten, pet.”

“Again with reminding me to have a solid talk with my parents about this.” Buffy shook her head, looking speculatively at Faith for another moment before turning to William. If her sister looked like that… did Buffy look similar? She really needed to find a mirror. “Do we look alike?”

William frowned, shifting his gaze between them. “Like night and day,” he said, brow furrowed. “But there’s something… I dunno. I feel something.”

Faith laughed, shooting the couple behind her an amused look. “Don’t know what you are then, blondie?”

William eyed her askance. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

Faith stepped toward them, close enough to touch. Her walk was a cocky, self-assured strut that was just  _made_  to put any other women in the room to shame. _I guess sexuality runs in the family?_ She jabbed a finger at William's chest, and Buffy narrowed her eyes dangerously.  _Okay, paws off, missy. He’s mine._

“You’re a vampire and B’s a demon slayer.”

William blinked at her, eventually breaking into a low chuckle. "You're off your bird."

“Yeah,” Alexander added, with a doubtful look. “What he said. The dude is way too tan to be a member of the 'Ah, sun, my burning flesh!’ brigade.”

“Who are fictional, besides,” Rupert added sternly.

Rolling her eyes, Faith suddenly struck out, nearly hitting Buffy square in the face. Through some weird instinct Buffy didn't know she possessed, she drew her arm up to block. Beside her, she heard a vicious snarl – like a real I’m-on-a-safari-and-look-there’s-a-lion snarl – and there was suddenly a terrifying beast where her apparent husband had stood.

" _You bloody-_ "

William's words cut off abruptly into shocked silence and Buffy watched as he drew his hands up to his face with clear disbelief, tracing his protruding brow ridge and fangs. Wow, he had honest-to-god fangs. "Well, shag me sideways, I'm a sodding creature of the night."

Buffy blinked, taking a step away from him. The demonic form sent an unpleasant shiver down her spine, something instinctual she couldn’t explain. "Wait,” she said firmly, trying to still her racing heart and the odd twin pull that demanded she both run and fight, all of it almost sidelined by some third feeling that staunchly told her to ignore the other two. Any more conflicting feelings and she would splinter apart. “I'm actually married to a  _vampire_?"

"Kinky," said Anya.

William gave Buffy a panicked look as she retreated from him, his face shifting back to a human guise. He reached hesitantly toward her, his face sheened with desperate fear. “Oh sweetheart, I didn’t know!” His voice was cracking. “Please don’t leave.”

The words stopped her in her tracks, though she couldn’t even begin to explain why. Suddenly, all the flight or fight response fled and she was left with only the third feeling (which she now she recognized as some crush of  _love_  and  _partner_  and  _stay_ ). She found herself as panicked as he was. A few racing steps and she was tugged into William’s embrace. She wrapped herself into his duster, running her fingers soothingly down his chest.

“No, no, I’m not leaving. Not going anywhere. I’m right here,” she crooned. Then, “It’s okay, William. I’m sure I knew what you were before.” She paused, turning her head to look over at her apparent sister. “Uhm, I did, right?”

Faith snorted. “Sure did, B. Look at your neck.”

Buffy’s hands flew up to her neck, startled, and pulled her hair away. William saw the marks a moment before she felt them. A pair on each side of her neck, like the strangest of tattoos.

Her husband balked. “I bite her? Well, that doesn’t seem right nice of me.”

The Mediterranean woman chuckled. “Is very nice,” she purred.

Buffy narrowed her eyes at the woman. “You’re a vampire, too, aren’t you?” Her gaze flickered to the man. “And you.”

“Oui, Général,” the man said easily, with a small smile.

“General?” Buffy’s eyes widened as realization crashed through her. “ _Oh_! I’m in the military. God, that makes so much more sense than hobo-ism.”

No one seemed to know what to say to that.

“Strange little head you have, luv,” William said finally, snorting.

Buffy gave him a cool look. “Well, I married a vampire, so…” She paused, turning back to Faith abruptly. “Wait. Did you call me a  _demon slayer_  before?”

Her sister smirked at her. “You got it, B.”

Buffy just blinked at her, looking between all the vampires with bemusement. “Huh. I must not be a very good one.”

Faith outright laughed. “You’re just picky about which demons need to die. Some of them are good guys. Or, you know, not super bad ones.”

Buffy considered that. “Well, that seems very fair of me.”

“Yeah, it’s a whole thing. New World Order and so on.”

Buffy’s brows furrowed in thought. General? New World Order? “Am I the boss?”

Mathilde chuckled, the edges of fangs flashing. “Oui, Général. Nous vous suivons.”  _We follow you._

Something very close to déjà vu lit in Buffy’s head, but disappeared before she could grasp it. “Well, that’s nice. Or would be, I guess. If I could remember anything.”

Faith sighed. “Yeah, about that.” She glanced back toward the rear end of the shop, walking toward the small table back there. “Do any of you remember what you guys were up to before you went all  _Memento_?”

“Not a whit,” Thomas said easily. He pulled Anya close to him, arm slung around her waist.

Faith paused, arching a brow in the Brit’s direction. “Uh huh. I can see that. Pretty friendly with Anya there, aren’t you?”

Anya scoffed at her. “We’re engaged, there’s nothing wrong with public displays of affection.”

That seemed to throw her sister for a loop. She looked like she wanted to say something, but just shook her head. “Not even worrying about that shit right now,” she muttered, glancing back at the table. She sighed. “Guessing some mojo went down, either by you guys or our cultists.”

Willow blinked. “We have, uh, cultists?”

“Yeah,” Faith said casually. “They’re cloaking themselves. Super annoying. You guys were supposed to be breaking the cloaking spell. Al and Tildy here,” she pointed to the vampire pair, “went with me to find them. We have some handy pendants that apparently kept us from getting spelled with you all.”

Rupert cleared his throat. “Say I believe for a moment that what you suggest is possible – that magic is real. Where does that leave us?”

Faith sighed. “Beats me.”

Buffy put her hands on her hips. "Don't you have like... a team or something for this kind of thing?"

Faith gave her a look. "Kinda hard when you all  _are_  the team, B."

“Oh.”

Her sister shrugged, seeming to come to a decision. “There are about twenty cultists out by the old high school. More than Al and Tildy and I can take.” She motioned to Buffy and William. “You guys are coming with us to kick some ass.”

“Thought you said the lot was cloaked or some such,” William said slowly.

“They are,” Faith agreed, “but you guys,” she pointed at the others, “are going to break the spell. Kind of priority number one right now, before they get a chance to raise their fearless leader from hell. We’ll deal with this memory situation later.”

Willow raised her hand tentatively. “How are we supposed to do magic?”

Faith nodded toward the books on the table, fingers resting on one with an open page. “Looks like you were about to perform a spell right before whatever the hell happened.” She paused, grabbing a couple swords down from the wall and tossing them to Buffy and William, then strode to the door. She gave the baffled group one last look. “You’ll figure it out. Just don’t blow up anything.”

And with that, she turned and left the shop, the French vampire pair at her heels. Buffy and William exchanged questioning looks. Buffy looked down at her weapon. It felt oddly right in her hands.

“Um, I guess we’ll go… slay things?”

“Looks that way,” William agreed, hefting his sword.

They exited the Magic Box and joined an impatient Faith and the vampires, who set off at a brisk speed.

Buffy gave the magic shop a last worried look. “Are you sure leaving the others alone to do magic without their memories is a good idea?”

Faith shrugged. “Honestly, can’t top the crap that’s happened  _with_ memories lately.”

“Wow, that inspires confidence.”

“You’re more of the pep talk woman, B. I just slay shit.”

“My wife is right peppy,” William agreed, with a grin. He not so subtly pinched her ass, causing her to yelp in surprise.

Buffy playfully swiped at him. “And my husband is a randy pest.”

Faith traded a look with the vampires. “Guess memories don’t really matter for those two.”

Al chuckled. “À ce qu'il paraît.”  _So it seems._

“English, Al.”

“Pardon. It seems that way.”

Buffy felt a smile tug at her. “So William and I are normally happy?”

“You guys are  _that_  couple, B.”

“That couple?”

“The one that pisses off every jaded single guy and chick out there.”

Buffy felt pride rush through her, and she met William’s equally pleased gaze. “We’re that couple.”

Her husband chuckled. “No complaints from my end, pet.”

Buffy beamed at him. She glanced around then, noticing that the people around the street tonight – of which there were surprisingly few – seemed to be ignoring their small, weapon-clad band entirely. “You’d think we’d be attracting more attention.”

Faith laughed. “In this town? Nah. The farther from normal you look, the faster they’ll pretend you don’t exist.”

“Huh.”

Their small band lapsed into mostly silence then as they walked. For her part, Buffy tried to sort through the gobs of new and strange information about herself. She was a military general (retired, it seemed) who now spent her time guarding a town against evil demons with her family. And she was married to a vampire. Well, no one could accuse her of being boring, that was for sure.

They reached the school Faith mentioned before too long, some hideously blackened shell of building.

“Bloody hell,” William said, with a low whistle. “Someone bombed this place right to hell.”

Faith shifted somewhat uneasily. “Yeah.”

Buffy touched her arm, to the other woman’s clear surprise. Maybe they weren’t a touchy feely family. “Everything okay?”

Faith looked at her with a twisted smile. “Yeah, B, it’s okay. Just some bad memories.”

“High school can have that effect.” Buffy paused. “Uhm, I think. I’ll be able to tell you for sure when I get my memories back.”

William glanced around the empty street. “So our blokes. They’re around here?”

“Just around the back. But without the pendants that me, Al, and Tildy have, you’re not going to be able to see them.”

“Until the others break the spell,” Buffy amended.

“Bingo.”

“So we wait?”

“We wait, B.”

Buffy shifted uncomfortably. “And what if they can’t break the spell?”

Faith shrugged. “Then we’ll improvise.”

Wow, her sister really  _wasn’t_  the pep talk kind.

Luckily, it didn’t come to that. After what like seemed like forever (and was probably less than twenty minutes), sudden light seemed to burst from around the building, accompanied by low chanting voices.

“Oh!” Buffy exclaimed. “I can hear them. The others must’ve done it.”

William nodded agreement, gaze fixed on the corner of the building. “Seems so, luv.”

Faith drew in a deep breath and glanced at their group. “Right. Time to kill some dudes. These guys are pretty low level, but they’ve got a wicked reach.”

“Got it,” Buffy said firmly. She couldn’t even explain why (the theme of the day, apparently), but she wasn’t even nervous. In fact, she felt… excited? Every nerve was singing with anticipation. A quick glance in her husband’s direction confirmed that he felt the same way. He was grinning fiercely, eyes glinting amber.

Tildy dropped into her demonic face, a look that was still unfairly pretty, even if incredibly predatory. “Now, Tueuse?”

“Let’s go,” Faith confirmed.

Buffy kind of expected a whole bunch of weird guys in black robes chanting in a circle, but what she got was a whole bunch of greenish skinned guys clad in hideous leather (what kind of leather was probably best not explored). They were standing in regimented form, looking toward a circle on the ground that looked suspiciously like it was outlined in blood. Luckily, the demon congregation was facing away from the approaching crew.

Buffy had a strange urge to make a sharp quip ( _Wow, you guys really lucked out in the oblivious and ugly categories),_ but bit it back almost regretfully. The element of surprise was more important than her drive to taunt the hideous demons.

Still, neatly slicing into a surprised enemy from behind nearly made up for it, even if it did seem a little like cheating. But Faith hadn’t been exaggerating. With nearly twenty demons around, they needed all the advantage they could get.

To Buffy’s relief, her earliest assessment of herself as a poor demon slayer seemed far from the mark. She didn’t even bother trying to think about her moves (in fact, she was pretty sure thinking was a terrible idea right now). Instead, she simply danced. Whirl, slash, stab, duck. The demons bled some kind of horrible black-ish stuff, but she avoided the worst of it, thanking her memoried self for the foresight to wear dark clothing.

When the last of the demons were dead, Tildy strode over to the circle and obliterated the mark using a piece of leather from one of the slain followers.

“There,” she said in satisfaction, around her fangs.

“Thanks, Tildy.” Faith wiped her axe on the grass, glancing around. “You guys alright?”

Buffy looked herself over thoughtfully. “Gross, but otherwise fine.” She looked for her husband, finding him a few feet away, watching her with a dark and promising gaze. Something almost palpable thrummed between them, like desire on steroids _. I guess fighting gets us hot?_

“I'm good as well, pet,” William said lowly, his voice rumbling and low.

Guh.  _I really need to find a place to have sex with him soon._  She paused, looking down at her demon goo-ed self.  _After I shower._

“We should get back to the others,” Buffy said almost regretfully, “and figure out this whole thing?”

But Buffy had no more said the words, than something heavy hit her like a physical blow, knocking her to the ground. Her entire head went fuzzy, all sorts of hot and cold, a million different sensations and sounds and feelings exploding through her with painful speed.

The oddest things came rushing back first, and all out of order.

The smell of fresh duck in a Beijing market. A conversation with Mr. Gordo at age eight about the importance of chocolate. The sound of Helena’s laugh as she watched Charles fondly out of the corner of her eye. An explosion of dust coating her coat in Restfield Cemetery. The sound of Bits singing happy birthday to Mo-mo with giggles and a newly frosted cake hoisted high. The almost noxious smell of bleach as she helped Spike dye his hair in a tub in a Berlin.

And suddenly, just like that, everything was back. Buffy gasped from the ground, looking over to find Spike kneeling in a similar fashion. Their eyes met swiftly.

“Alright, luv?”

Buffy nodded, swallowing roughly. “Yeah. Are you okay, Elly?”

“Bit brassed, all told.”

Buffy pulled herself to her feet, a chill rage taking hold of her. “I know.”

Faith looked between them with clear relief. “You guys are back?”

“We’re back.” Buffy hefted her sword, her chest burning. A horrible suspicion was lying in her chest, eating away at her carefully trained calm. God, had she been this angry before? Only once, she decided. Upon seeing the Nazi flag draped across the Eiffel Tower. Then, it was her beautiful city that had been raped and imprisoned. Now it had been her mind. “Let’s get back to the Magic Box.”

Albert and Mathilde stepped forward as one.

“Bon retour, Général et Elly,” Albert said with a solemn nod.  _Welcome back._

“Merci, Albert.”

Spike nodded at them and then strode to take Buffy’s free hand. His blue eyes were glittering, hard. He glanced at her, and she knew he was mirroring her suspicions.

“Let’s go.”

 

***

 

The scene at the Magic Box appeared nearly frozen in time when Buffy and the others entered. Willow was standing, almost shaking, in the center of the room, the remains of some crystal smashed at her feet. Thomas and Anya were standing awkwardly apart near the register, Xander watching them both with a mix of embarrassment, jealousy, and confusion. Rupert was staring shakily at Willow, clearly in between heated words. Tara was in the corner, looking away from the entire scene.

Buffy took them in with a glance, something in her snapping entirely as she spied the obviously guilty redhead. Before anything else could really be done, Buffy strode up to her once-friend and slapped her across the face. The sound rang through the Magic Box like a harsh bell.

Willow gasped as she recoiled from the blow, eyes filling with tears. “Buffy!”

“You hideously selfish _child_!” Buffy said lowly, her voice like ice, a welter of emotions flooding through her. “This is the second time in a week you’ve taken my family and my entire world from me! How many times do you have to hurt people before you fucking learn better?”

Spike came up beside her, his gaze flat and cold. She could feel the restrained tremble of his muscles. “Red, if you were anyone else, I’d have your hide right now, you bloody reckless bint.”

Willow looked at them pleadingly, lower lip trembling. “But, Buffy, I didn’t–”

“Get. Out,” Buffy bit out, realizing she was one moment away from doing much worse to the woman than smacking her.

“But, Buffy, I–”

“ _Get out_!”

Willow looked frantically at the assembled crew, but only shock and hostility met her gaze. Face paling, she fled, the door jingling with her abrupt exit.

Buffy took a deep breath, turning directly into her husband’s arms. She didn’t need to say a word. Spike tugged her against him within the moment and peppered her face with kisses, covering her cheeks and temples and mouth like points on a map that he needed to mark. Buffy let her hands run all over him, down the curve of his back and the steep lines of his shoulder blades and the rounded swell of his arms.

“Elly,” she nearly keened, letting her desperation and fear and love wash through her.

“I know,” he said lowly, mouth running down her neck and past his marks in a way that made her shiver. “I know, luv. I’m here.”

“We’re both here.” Buffy sank into him, her rage fading into terrible need and fierce agony. “How could she?”

Giles cleared his throat from a few steps away. “A very good question.”

Buffy looked up, meeting her former Watcher’s pained gaze. “This can’t go on, Giles.”

“I think we are all in agreement, my dear.”

A sudden, horrible realization took her then. “Oh my god.  _Dawnie_! Dawn was probably affected, too!”

Thomas immediately moved toward the door. “I’ll find her, Auntie.” He was gone in the next moment.

Buffy nodded at that and took a deep breath, very reluctantly pulling away from her husband. There were things to be done. Spike made a noise of protest and pulled her back.

“Not ready,” he growled.

Buffy didn’t argue. She wasn’t ready, either. There would be time to deal with what to be done. But not yet. For now, there was the comfort of her husband’s arms – the one constant in her long life, no matter how hell or Hellmouth tried to destroy everything else.

 

***

 

Two hours, a phone call, and a computer reservation later, Buffy met Willow on the back porch of Revello Drive. Willow had come upon request, and sat uneasily against the railing as the Slayer joined her.

Buffy placed the plane ticket between them.

Willow eyed it uneasily, then looked away. “Dawn’s okay?”

Buffy pursed her lips. A small portion of her longed to tell the other woman that she’d been dealing with a distraught sister for the better part of an hour, and that her shirt was still damp from the tears. The majority of her was lost to General mode. “She’ll recover.” A pause. “Did you hear from Xander?”

Willow picked at a loose bit of paint on the step. “Yeah,” she said softly, shakily. “A–a neighbor saw the smoke before it did too much damage. The kitchen isn’t a happy place, but the rest of the apartment is okay.” She stopped picking and looked at Buffy full-on, her green eyes pleading. “Everyone hates me now, don’t they?”

“I don’t think hate is the right word. But they’re not happy with you. For good reason.” Buffy tapped the plane ticket. “I booked you a flight for tomorrow evening.”

“And I don’t get a choice,” Willow said harshly, looking away again.

“I’m sorry, Wil. I really am. It’s just… I’m not your friend right now.”

“You’re not my friend ever, anymore,” Willow bit back, bitterness threading through her voice.

“I was, once. And I can’t help the time that’s passed.”

The witch regarded her through angry tears. “You know, I don’t think you even tried that hard to come back. After that witch at the apothecary said you probably couldn’t, it was all ‘Halfrek or bust.’ And then when it was ‘bust,’ you just went all vacation Buffy for a hundred years. Must’ve been nice.”

Buffy sighed. “I’m not going to apologize for my decisions. But you’re right. I didn’t try that hard.” She gave the other woman a long look. “Wil… I was done, you know? At the end of my ability to function. Deathwish central.” She shook her head. “But this isn’t about me. You incapacitated almost our entire team. It could’ve gotten a lot of people killed. And it’s my responsibility to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Willow stared at her with a trembling chin. “And what if I don’t go.”

Buffy looked at her sadly.  _You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you?_  “Then I’ll have your powers bound until further notice. You’re too dangerous right now, Willow.”

Willow looked at her bitterly. “Right. I’m more dangerous than the Slayer who now is all buddy-buddy with demons and evil things and… and all the bumpies!”

Buffy laughed helplessly. “Incredibly more dangerous. And, please, I hope you take that as a compliment. You’re terrifyingly strong.” She looked at Willow fiercely. “I want you to get real training. For you. For  _me_. I’ve been lucky to have your talents around.”

When that earned her only a disbelieving stare, Buffy added gently, “And Tara wants that too.”

Willow’s face crumpled. “Oh, goddess. Tara’s so mad at me.” She looked at Buffy hesitantly. “Do you think she’ll take me back?”

Buffy shrugged. “She loves you.”

Willow looked down at her feet. “What if not enough?”

Buffy felt a wry smile twist her face and pulled up her pant leg, revealing a long scar that wound up her shin and ended at the base of her knee. “See this?”

Willow glanced over, eyes widening.

“Spike gave me this in 1908.” At Willow’s gasp, she elaborated, “Well, not so much Spike directly, as much as the pylon he threw me into.”

“He  _threw you into a pylon_?”

“Mhm.” Buffy traced the scar slowly. “We were having one of our ‘you almost got your stupid ass killed so now I’m going to kill you’ fights.”

“Um, I take it you were the one who almost got killed?”

Buffy felt a rueful smile pull at her lips. “For about 90% of those fights I was the almost-dead girl, yes. And in 1908, definitely yes.” She laughed softly. “My point is, you screwed up, Wil. We’ve all done it. And you’ll do it again. I’m sure  _I’ll_  do it again. But Tara loves you, and if you try to be better, chances are good that she’ll continue to try and love you.”

There was a long moment of silence, then Willow took a deep shuddering breath. “Okay,” she said finally. She gave Buffy a weak smile, glancing down at the plane ticket. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”

“It’s beautiful this time of year.”


	11. Sunnydale-at-Large: Hangover

Sometimes Dawn was convinced her sister had been body swapped. And replaced with, like, Aunt Arlene or somebody. Aunt Arlene was a lesbian, though, so that didn’t make a lot of sense, considering the constant Spike grope-age. But whatever.

Or sometimes Buffy did something so mom-like it was entirely freaky, although most of the time she was too cool for that (not to say mom hadn’t been cool sometimes, but she’d been  _mom_ ). And to say Dawn never thought  _cool_ was something she’d call her sister was basically the understatement of the century.

But then, her sister had apparently lived  _through_  the last century. And come back around with a huge family. Her family now. Thomas had put her on speakerphone with the Delanceys in London last month, and she got to talk to like a million cousins, who all seemed as delighted to know her as she had been to know them. There may have been a lot of teenage girlish squealing. It may have given Thomas a headache. Dawn was only kind of sorry. After so long with only mom and Buffy (since not even her own dad wanted to stick around), having a gigantic British family was… well, it made everything kind of okay.

Even when everything was so  _not_  okay. Like when she’d gotten thrown into some horrible other dimension where dad was her only living relative. Or like two weeks ago, when she’d lost her memories entirely.

Dawn had found herself in the living room at a stranger’s house (that turned out to be Janice’s) and the worried family had taken her straight to the hospital. The nurses were nice, but they kept bothering her with a hundred questions she didn’t know how to answer and they wouldn’t let her go home, even though Janice’s family had told them her address. She’d been about to make a break for it anyway (even if she had to sock nurse Doris in the nose) when her memories came flooding back. And then she’d babbled frantically at the nurses that she was fine and to please,  _please_  just let her go home. They still hadn’t listened, though, and she was about to throw a bedpan when Thomas appeared. He had looked unexpectedly steely, reminding her weirdly of Buffy – that look she got when someone who belonged to her was threatened. He said something sharp to the nurses and then made a beeline for her.

Dawn met him in the middle of the floor, nearly tripping over her own legs. Stupid legs.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmured as he pulled her into a bear hug.

She was super embarrassed to admit that she practically sobbed all over his shirt.

“It’s okay, miss Dawn, we’re getting home now,” he said soothingly, rubbing circles into her back. She secretly loved that he called her that. Miss Dawn. It made her feel grown-up. Thomas never treated her like a kid, ever.

He was the best cousin a girl could ask for. And he was gone now, back to school. She had sobbed at him then, too, shamefacedly, as he stood outside of airport security in LA. He’d just grinned and kissed her forehead.

“It’s just across the pond for a tick, miss Dawn.” He’d looked at her very seriously then, spoiling the effect with a mischievous wink. “Can’t leave my favorite cousin to deal with the elderly alone for too long, now can I?”

Dawn had beamed at him. “I’m your favorite? Really? Even though you’ve only known me for like three months?”

He grinned at her. “You’re Auntie’s sister. Couldn’t be anything but.”

And then he’d gripped her in a warm hug.

She’d felt stupidly sad when he finally pulled away and turned to Buffy and Spike.

“Safe travels, Bit,” Spike said solemnly. “Give Abbie and Paul our best, yeah?”

“Always do,” Thomas said with a shake of his head. “Mum’s been going wild about the Sunnydale Brachens. Family’s going to make me talk my bloody tongue off when I get back.”

Buffy pulled him close, her small frame holding him with what looked like almost painful tightness. The classic Buffy hug of love. Apparently her sister still forgot love and not being able to breathe were so not the same thing.

“Well, remind her that we much prefer you unmuted,” Buffy said sternly.

Thomas grinned at her cheekily. “Since when, Auntie?”

He’d left with a fond swat from Buffy and another hug each from Spike and Dawn.

Luckily, he was coming back to Sunnydale for good at Christmas, once school was over. She’d made him pinky promise. So he had to.

“It’s my solemn word, miss Dawn,” he told her seriously as they linked digits. Then he grinned. “Can’t let the Delancey reputation go to hell, after all. I’d be fucking ostracized.”

“Buffy would so kill you if she knew you were swearing around me.”

Thomas laughed. “Right. Because Uncle is just the paragon of wholesome speech.”

“He gets a pass somehow. Probably because half of his swear words don’t make any sense.”

Thomas had paused at that, looking for a second like he might say something, then changed his mind. “Quite nonsensical,” he agreed.

Dawn narrowed her eyes. Crap. That meant Spike’s stupid swears totally meant something. Which meant she had to look them up.

And she had, the day before yesterday. And  _gross_. After reading what ‘bugger’ meant, she kind of super wished her memories had gotten wiped again.

And now it was Sunday night, and the end credits were rolling on  _The Princess Bride,_ to Dawn’s great disappointment. She turned a narrow gaze on the pair on the couch. Ugh. They were kissing.  _Again._  The crush she had maybe sort of had on Spike had totally left the building since finding out he’d basically become family. The kissing (not to mention all of the other stuff she had heard  _way too much of_  all freaking summer) just solidified that.

“You guys are going out again tonight, aren’t you?”

Buffy turned away from Spike and gave her a mysterious smile. “Well, we’re not complete tee-totallers.”

What. Even.

Spike snorted. “You just have to bring that up at least once a decade, don’t you?”

“Yep.” Buffy grinned at him. “At least I left out the president part this time.”

Dawn exhaled noisily before they could go off on their sickening banter any longer. “God, you guys are so weird. Weirder than you already were, that is.”

Buffy raised a brow at her, still smiling. This version of her sister smiled a lot more than the old one. It was kind of nice. “Better watch out, Dawnie. I think it’s hereditary.”

“Remind me to kick the bucket before I’m ancient and insane, then.”

Spike chuckled at her. “Will do, Niblet.” He gestured toward the staircase. “Now that’s enough stalling. Off to beddy bye with you.”

“Ugh.” God, when had Spike turned so straight-laced? He was a total buzzkill these days. Her sister had been such a bad influence. She wondered if buying him some black nail polish – just as a not so subtle reminder of the cool vampire he’d once been – would be in any way useful. “But it’s only like ten o’clock.”

Her sister’s voice turned stern. “It’s eleven. And it’s your first day of school tomorrow. Bed. Now.”

Geez. Correction. Her sister was a smiley, weird  _hard ass_. Dawn almost said so, then stopped herself. Repeating words from Faith probably wasn’t going to help with the bedtime situation. “Whatever,” she grumbled instead. “Just make the new high school kid have the bedtime of a stupid five year old.” But she got up and headed upstairs anyway. If she stayed up, she’d end up just seeing them make out on the couch, and she’d seen  _way_  more than she ever needed of that already. For like, ever.

“You guys are gross!” she called down the stairs.

Buffy’s laughter was her only reply.

 

***

 

“Oh! Damnit, I almost had that one!” Buffy’s face settled into a pout as she stared at the game board, grabbing a handful of cheesy popcorn with clear irritation. The expression strongly reminded Clem of a blonde chipmunk.

Beside her on the couch, Spike just chuckled merrily as he wiped her piece away, taking a long swig of his beer. “’Almost’ only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, pet.”

They were in Spike’s old crypt, which was now happily Clem’s new home. He wasn’t much of a decorator, but he liked to think he’d managed to make the place look almost cozy. A few rugs here, a bit more light there, and voila!

It was homey enough to apparently function as the monthly spot for the Sunnydale Beasts and Board Games Club. Well, it wasn’t actually a club, but it could be. Clem knew the kilari demon who ran the print shop over on Main and he had a sneaking suspicion he could get a nice discount on some t-shirts.

He paused in thought. Would advertising that the Slayer was a founding member help draw in members or scare them away? Lord knew he’d about had a heart attack when he ran into her (literally) over at Sid’s Tavern (not his usual spot, but the owner ran a good kitten poker game out the back). He knew of the Slayer only by reputation at that point, but it wasn’t hard to figure it out from contact, as running into her had been like hitting a small piece of steel. He had immediately recoiled, as the Slayer didn’t exactly have a reputation for sorting out the different species of demons. He was pretty sure her mantra was that the only good demon was a dead one (well, that’d been the rumor mill, anyway).

Of course, seeing Spike right behind her hadn’t helped the situation. The master vampire he knew on sight, and had heard some pretty volatile things about. Clem wasn’t the kind that wanted to wake up missing skin flaps just because he’d ticked off a schnockered Aurelian. No sirri, Bob.

Honest to Pete, he’d half-expected not to make it out of the encounter alive. What he  _hadn’t_  expected was for the Slayer’s surprised expression to turn into a kind smile. And he definitely hadn’t expected her to say, “Oh! I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t bump your drink.”

He was mostly certain at that point that he’d simply confused the small blonde (demon?) for the Slayer. For a moment, at least, until Spike rolled his eyes.

“A bloody century, Slayer, and you’re still a stumblebum.”

“And you’re still an insufferable ass, Elly,” she returned, but she was smiling. She held out a hand to Clem. “Excuse my devolved husband here. I’m Buffy.”

“Clement,” he managed to stammer, growing more confused by the situation every second.

He’d gotten everything cleared up by the end of the night, though. Not that the Slayer and Spike were making it widely known that they’d gone back in time or anything, but they apparently liked him, and Clem wasn’t about to turn down the display of friendship. Even amongst the other peaceful demon species, loose-skinned demons were the butt of many a joke. Although, come to think of it, he hadn’t heard any muttering in earshot since he starting hanging with the Slayer and Spike. Huh.

From the other side of the table, Jose – a skeletal looking Pregotthian – made a small noise of triumph as he captured Spike’s piece with a move that wasn’t illegal per se, but was about as close as you could come without crossing the line. “Aha!”

Spike shot the demon a sour look. “Tosser.”

Jose sniffed at him, all seven nostrils flaring. “No need to be rude, vampire.”

“Hey, guys,” Clem interrupted cheerily, skin flapping. Knowing how last week had gone, there was likely to be a brawl without a distraction. It had taken him three days to find all the game pieces (two had been hiding underneath a crack in the room’s sarcophagus). He really didn’t care for a repeat this week. “How about we take a break? Have a couple more beers?”

Buffy looked at him knowingly, her face creased with amusement. She laughed, tugging a grumbling Spike to his feet. “We’d better get back home anyway. I have to get our Bit’s lunch ready for tomorrow.”

Clem smiled warmly. “Oh! Lordy, is it that time of year already?”

“Mhm.” Buffy practically hummed. “And Dawn’s actually not going to school over a hellmouth entrance, since they’ve diverted all the students to Fondren High School. Apparently no one’s ready to rebuild Sunnyhell High.”

Spike chuckled. “We’re hoping the only trouble there is of the actual teenage kind.”

Buffy grimaced. “I think that’s a little too optimistic, Elly.”

“That’s why it’s called bloody ‘hoping,’ luv.”

“I’m pretty sure ‘hope’ and ‘obviously insane reaching’ are not the same thing.”

He smirked at her, framing his crotch with his hands. “Got something for you to reach for right here.”

“God, Elly. You’re incorrigible.”

“Keep talking, pet. Love hearing those big words roll off your pretty lil tongue.”

“I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Pretty sure you  _can_ , Slayer.” He grinned at her. “And have.”

“If you’re trying to make me blush, that went by the wayside like three decades ago.”

“Wanna bet?”

Buffy rolled her eyes at her husband and shoved him toward the door. The pair waved goodbye and exited the crypt, still bickering.

Jose shook his head, the massive creases on his face deepening as he surveyed the game board. “Do you think we’ll ever get to finish a game?”

Clem shrugged and started picking up empty beer bottles from the floor. “Hopefully.” He paused in thought. Maybe he’d wait on the t-shirts. Just in case.

 

***

 

“You haven’t touched your chicken.”

Xander looked at her briefly from the other side of the table. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Not very hungry.”

Anya sighed. If there was a human award for moping, Xander would have a blue ribbon (or gold ribbon, or whatever arbitrary color humanity assigned. Humanity was good at that. The arbitrary).

It’d been two weeks. Without orgasms. She was going to scream. She stabbed her chicken instead. “Honey,” she said calmly, an edge creeping into her voice, “we didn’t have our memories. I’m not sure how many times I can repeat this fact to you.”

Xander looked at her fully then, his jaw clenching. He was really sexy when he did that, getting all male. And he was going to kill her if he didn’t put out soon. “Ahn. I know.”

Her fork clattered to her plate. “You say that, Xander Harris,” she snapped, “but you don’t act like it. You’re punishing me for a spell that  _Willow_  did, and I don’t appreciate it!”

Xander’s face deflated and he looked back down at his plate. He didn’t say anything for a long minute. “We both know it wasn’t just the spell.”

Anya felt her shoulders slump. “Xander… you don’t get it. You don’t get it at all!” She got up from her seat and stood by him, fingers stopping just before they touched his shoulder. “I like Thomas. He understands me. He understands demon-y things.”

Xander’s gaze snapped to her, dark with triumphant anger and loss.

“But,” she continued sternly, “I choose to be with you. I choose you to have orgasms with and to wear a metal symbol of our love and to hold me when I’m a nearly dead human husk.”

Xander’s expression melted. “Ahn…”

Anya pulled tugged her fiancé to his feet. Enough was enough. “Stop moping and come have sex with me now.”

“Yes, honey.”

 

***

 

“I’m telling you,” Warren said eagerly, with a kind of fervor that made Andrew feel slightly anxious. Okay, it made him feel entirely anxious. And also a bit hot. God, Warren was so hot. The thought made him freeze in panic, but a quick glance ensured his thoughts had remained unnoticed.  _Play it cool, Andrew._

“It’s a foolproof plan,” Warren continued. “I was totally running Sunnydale in the future.”

Jonathan looked at him suspiciously. “I thought you said  _we_  were running Sunnydale.”

Warren paused for the barest second. “Right. We. Totally meant ‘we’.”

Andrew giggled a bit nervously. No, not nervously. Confidently. “So what do we have to do, el maestro?”

Warren smirked. “We need to learn more about the Slayer.”

 

***

 

Albert dropped his unconscious meal against the dumpster. After a small moment, he adjusted the woman’s head slightly to left, to a more natural position, and the labored sound of her breathing eased. Satisfied, he turned to his beloved. So greedy even after a century, Mathilde was drawing out her meal, reveling in the warm life’s blood. Her amber eyes were half closed in contentment, her arms wrapped around the man’s waist, as if they were dancing. He knew she longed for the finish, for the moment of stuttering that signaled the heart’s last beating, the beautiful twitching of dead limbs. A delighted shiver ran through him at the thought, but he shook it off almost mournfully. There was the General to consider.

After another moment, his mate dropped her meal as well. She carefully licked the blood from her lips, grinning over her fangs. Albert held out his hand and she took it, purring. His beautiful dark mate.

It was long suspected that Mathilde’s grandsire was Dracula himself, but it had never been confirmed. They never cared to seek out the flashy  _licheor plain d'anvi_. Even now the thought of the lecherous trickster made Albert’s lips curl into a snarl. Unfortunately for his mate, there was no real other way of knowing her lineage anymore, not since the dusting of her sire by a vampire hunter when she was nothing but a fledgling.

She had been left all alone. Just as he had been.

He’d never had the pleasure of knowing his sire at all, and he wondered often if his line was callous or simply negligent. In the end, it mattered not. As he had been a solitary man in life until meeting his untimely end, so he become as a vampire. He had been alone for nearly thirty years when his beloved found him on a lonely Parisian street. And then it was them together to travel the boundless night.

It had been Mathilde’s idea to join La Résistance Démoniaque. She had been growing tired of the intrusion into their territory, and eager for something beyond the mundane death of their previous lifestyle. And even then besides, they were both still French first and vampires second. The Nazis were sycophantic children who deserved their ends as they met them.

And now, in the strangest of moves, they had traded their solitary life for this  _Bouche de l’Enfer_. A mouth of hell. It made his skin vibrate.

Mathilde reveled in it. As much as she took the quiet for his benefit, this place was never the same darkness from one moment to the next. It made her sing. And for that, he found himself glad of the place.

He and Mathilde were lazily meandering down the street, warmed and sated, when a strange scent hit them both. They paused, trading glances. It was the musk of a vampire, redolent with age. Not as old as their Elly, not even as old as themselves. But still. Old enough to bring Albert’s demon itching to the fore.

They followed the scent cautiously, steps gaining speed as they realized its direction was leading straight to their nest. They flew into the shadows, demons anxious, fleeing home.

And still, even with all the speed of age, they did not beat the intruder there. A strange man stood on their General's lawn, facing a clearly wary Liz and Elly, who appeared to just be returning home.

Albert slid into the lamp light with his mate right beside, flanking the newcomer. The man blinked back at them, brows raising in surprise.

“Got yourselves some bodyguards, I see,” the man said casually.

Elly was eyeing the man in his demon face, edging in front of Liz with clear warning. “Who the bloody fuck are you?”

The newcomer looked almost disappointed. “Oh come on, you don’t remember me? We had a nice swim back to shore together, after all.”

Elly’s face grew slack. “Oh hell.” Some realization crossed his face. “That’s why you…”

“Feel like family? Reckon so.” The newcomer tilted his head. “You don’t though, anymore. You trade in the Chief for a new sire? Can’t blame you. I’d do the same in a heartbeat.” A pause. “If I had one.”

The General stepped to the edge of the porch, her eyes flashing. “What is going on?”

Elly looked at her with something resembling wry disbelief. “It’s bloody Captain America.”

“Huh?” Liz’s eyes narrowed dangerously and Albert almost chuckled. It was not wise to let her become confused. “Again. Who. Are. You?”

The newcomer stepped forward and Albert followed, Mathilde beside him.

“Name’s Sam Lawson.”


	12. Hangover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With some dialogue from AtS 5.13 "Why We Fight."

“So you’re the man Angel turned during the war.”

Lawson inclined his head from where he was sitting casually on their front porch. Buffy had briefly debated inviting him inside, but a quick glance at the front door had earned her a sharp growl and a low, “over my dead bloody corpse, Slayer.” She’d refrained – barely – from retorting any of the half dozen possible replies that so temptingly sat on her tongue, like  _But honey, you just love it when I'm over your corpse_ and _Elly, if you were dead, you'd be dust, although, hey, you're getting up there in years. Maybe you'll have bones like the Master soon._  

Although, if Spike hadn’t balked at the suggestion, chances were good she’d have had to contend with Albert and Mathilde on the subject. They’d looked positively panicked upon finding Lawson in their yard.

 _And it really is theirs now_ , she mused.  _Our strange interspecies nest._  Revello Drive was finally starting to feel like more than a temporary apartment in some random city… now that it bore so little resemblance to what it had been before. Once, a very pregnant Margaret (one of Anne’s grand-Bits) had decided that her living room was the absolute wrong color for their soon-to-be daughter, and she made her husband (a dear, if somewhat beleaguered man named James) repaint the entire thing. Buffy had just watched the ordeal with bright amusement and gently teased James about his slavery. He’d smiled and shrugged. “My Maggie wants it to be home. If it takes repainting the whole damn house before it feels like home the way she wants it, then I guess that’s what I’ll be doing until it’s done.”

And they had been repainting Revello Drive in much the same way. With new family and furniture and frames of mind. It was also a place where a strange and possibly evil vampire was not currently welcome.

“I’m the man he turned,” Lawson echoed with a casual tone, belying dark and bitter eyes. He looked up at her with a deceptively boyish face, all wholesome angles and clean cut attire. She halfway expected him to call her ‘ma’am’ at any moment.  _Elly really wasn’t exaggerating with the Captain America thing._

“It’s a funny world,” Lawson continued, “when the monster who makes you just like him all but sends you to die less than a day later. Kind of plays with a man’s head, you know?”

Spike snorted, his eyes dark with some memory. His stance grew less agitated. “Soul never did make Angelus less of a wanker.”

“There’s a lot a soul can’t do,” Buffy said softly, catching her husband’s gaze. He threw her a small smile, hand briefly brushing her waist.

Lawson snapped a sharp gaze between them. “Soul? The Chief has a soul? Do you think he passed part of that on?”

“Don’t think you’d want Peaches’s soul, mate. Cursed and all.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, then paused, frowning. “What makes you think you might have a soul?”

Lawson’s mouth twisted into sardonic smile. “Been going about this ‘creature of the night’ thing for sixty years. I’ve done all the terrible things a monster does – murdered women and children, tortured fathers and husbands just to hear 'em scream – and through it all... I felt nothing. Sixty years of blood drying in my throat like ashes.” He laughed. “The Chief did me in good, that’s for sure. Can’t be a man, and don’t enjoy being a monster. That’s a special kind of damned, now don’t you think?”

Buffy and Spike exchanged a look.

“Doesn’t quite sound like Peaches’s gig,” he said lowly.

“No, it doesn’t. But then, our sample size is kind of low for the whole souled thing. I’ve never heard of souls being hereditary, though.” Buffy paused. Wait,  _were_  souls hereditary? Humans had littler humans who had littler humans and so on, each with their own little souls… And vampires passed on whatever it was that took up the space near a soul, the place carved out for the demon to make its home. And both ways were made of blood. Blood given, blood taken, blood created. It was always about the blood.

Buffy put a hand to her forehead to stop her spiraling thoughts and turned back to Lawson. “I don’t know what happened to you. But we can find out. If you want.” She paused. “Although what I’d really like to know is what you’re doing here.”

Lawson laughed at that. “Just came this way to check on the Chief, actually. I see what the old man is up to every few years.” He raised a brow. “Last I heard, he was here in Sunnydale. Imagine my surprise when I get wind that – not only has the rooster flown the coop – but that another familiar face was here in town.” His eyes flickered to Buffy’s hand. “And living like some true blue family man.”

Spike sucked in a breath, his eyes flashing as his muscles stilled, coiled. “If you’re here for revenge–”

“For what, killing half my crew and pretending to be a Jerry?” Lawson shrugged. “Won’t pretend I care for you much, but that’s not why I’m here. And since you got booted off the sub same as me, I’m going to guess you and the Chief aren’t the closest of friends.”

All the pieces fell into place in Buffy's head with intense clarity. “You’re planning to kill Angel,” she said slowly.

“Eventually. Gotta have some kind of purpose in life… even if you’re dead.”

Spike raised a brow. “So this is what then, a quick hello-goodbye before you go and try to dust the Poof?”

“Just figured I should be polite. Isn’t that what visiting relatives do?” He sighed somewhat mockingly. “I tell you, manners have really gone by the wayside since my day.”

Spike chuckled at that. “Hate to break it to you, ‘Merica, but my lady and I have you lapped in years several times over.”

“Although Elly’s manners have degraded severely since the nineteenth century,” Buffy said dryly.

Spike raised a brow in her direction, the edges of a smirk curling up his mouth. “And you just didn’t have any to begin with, pet.”

She threw him a dark look, though her mouth was fighting a smile. Spike saw it, of course, and just grinned at her like some errant schoolboy.

Lawson looked between them with a thoughtful gaze. “It's quite the set-up you have going on out here.” His gaze sharpened onto Buffy. “And you’re not a vampire, even. Although…”

“I kind of feel like one.”

“Yes, ma’am."

Ah, there was the ma’am. Buffy swallowed an amused smile. “Same kind of demon, different relationship.”

“She’s a Slayer, mate.”

Lawson raised a brow. “A slayer of what?”

Buffy shrugged. “I’m kind of the supernatural police force.”

“Brute squad, more like.”

“Hey!” She huffed. “A hundred years ago, maybe. I like to think I’ve acquired a bit more finesse since then.”

“Among other fine bits, yeah?”

“William, are you saying I’ve gotten fat?”

Spike gaped at her a long moment before narrowing his eyes dangerously. “Where in the hell did you get that idea from?”

“Acquiring bits doesn’t exactly sound like a flattering statement, you idiot.”

Lawson glanced bemusedly past them to the two French vampires in the yard. “This pass for normal around these parts?”

“Since the beginning,” Albert said calmly.

Buffy giggled. “We used to be worse, actually.”

Spike smiled warmly at her. “Loads,” he agreed.

Lawson shook his head. “You don’t sound like the bastard I met on my sub, I’ll give you that.”

“Been a long time, mate,” Spike said lowly.

“Didn’t think sixty years was all that long to an immortal.” Lawson glanced into the dark yard, his gaze distant. “Well, it seems like forever and nothing at the same time, so far as I’ve seen it.”

“Been a lot longer on my end.”

Buffy nodded. “Spike an I got thrown back in time a while ago. Your sixty years has been Spike's one hundred and eighty.”

Lawson just blinked at them. “Well, I’ll be.”

Spike sighed. “If it helps, mate, second time I went through the war, was on the sodding front lines of the French Resistance.”

Buffy motioned to the French vampires. “We all were.”

Lawson’s face brightened into an expression that looked almost eager, some lost piece of patriotism bringing his eyes to life. “You don’t say. That’s a whopper of a turn around.”

Buffy nodded, watching the visiting vampire’s face quietly. There was something there, some spark of need that felt familiar. Some kind of restless drive to be a part of the big picture. It was, she realized with a start, _her_  drive. “You miss it,” she said softly.

Lawson looked at her, shrugging. “The war? Sure. Went from helping to keep the world from hell to being an upstanding member of it. Not exactly the future I figured on when I signed up. Not the death I thought might be there, either.”

Buffy bit her lip in thought, a shadow of an idea beginning to take shape.

Spike must’ve caught the direction of her thoughts. “No bloody way, Slayer,” he grated out.

“Why not?” She arched a brow. “I’m surprised him wanting to kill Angel hasn’t made you best pals already.”

“Don’t trust him to not do the same to us, should it strike his fancy.”

 _And I’m not putting you in danger_ , were the unsaid words, so bright in his eyes they might as well have been aloud.

“I think he could help with the fledglings, Elly.”

Lawson eyed them curiously. “Fledglings?”

“Buffy,” Spike growled lowly, warningly.

“Elly, he can help us.”  _He’s the missing Plan B._  A vampire in need of a purpose. A vampire who understood what it meant to be a monster and didn’t care for it. A vampire who wasn’t Elly and sworn to protecting her first above all else. A vampire who might just figure out how to make their integrated society a reality (well, as ‘integrated’ as a bunch of demons could make a place, anyway. She held no illusions that it would bloodless. Really, she’d be really bored if it were).

In fact, it sort of felt like the perfect vampire for the job had just fallen into her lap. Actually, it felt  _exactly_  like that.  _I swear to god, if the PTB are butting in, they better know what the hell they’re doing this time._

Spike threw up his hands, looking like he wanted to shake her. “Impossible woman! We’re not a fucking halfway house.”

She grinned at him. “’The Summers-Pratt Halfway House’ has such a nice ring to it, though.”

Spike shot her an infuriated look before turning on his heel and snarling at the watching Lawson. “You so much as look at my family the wrong bloody way and there won’t be enough monster left of you to even worry about the fact anymore.”

Mathilde and Albert approached from the shadows of the tree in the front yard.

“If we do not see your end first, no?” Mathilde said with slow threat, amber eyes flashing.

Lawson pulled himself to his feet, looking entirely confused. “Told you, I’m not here for you.”

Buffy gave him a wry look. “Do you want to be?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Do you want a mission?”

Lawson’s face brightened again, suddenly thick with hunger. “More than anything, ma’am.”

“More than you want to go and kill Angel?”

That made the man pause. He shrugged finally. “The Chief can wait.”

“Good.” Buffy stepped toward the front door and opened it, stepping inside. “Then come in, Lawson.” She paused, smiling a bit sardonically. “And welcome to Sunnydale.”

 

***

 

“Does anyone else feel like we’re starting to collect vampires?” Xander shook his head from his position slouching at the Magic Box table the next evening. “Because I’m really starting to feel like we’re collecting vampires.”

Spike snorted, giving Buffy a pointed look. “No bloody ‘ _we’_ about it, Harris.”

Buffy shrugged. “Hey, I’m just a girl that knows an opportunity when she sees one.”

"And what an opportunity," Faith added with an appreciative smirk.

Giles shifted from his position near the register, eyeing Lawson with bright interest. “Sired from a souled vampire. Remarkable.”

Lawson laughed shortly. “And here I thought ‘sadistic’ was more the way of it.” He looked around at the gathered Scoobies. “So this is the crew, huh?”

“This is the crew,” Buffy agreed.

Xander shifted uneasily. “And we’re adding another mass murderer to it?”

“Xander!” Anya gave him a look.

Xander winced at his fiancée’s tone but didn’t back down. “Hey, I’m allowed to be worried that another creature who likes to make with the people milkshakes is joining the gang. I like not hanging with the six feet under crowd. And known killers don’t exactly inspire a bunch of confidence in that direction.”

Anya raised a brow. “Xander Harris, you’re one of two people in this room who hasn’t killed anyone.”

Xander blinked at her. “What? No… I’m….” His gaze flicked around the room, faltering as he looked from Faith to Buffy to Spike to Giles to the French vampires and landed finally on a slightly amused looking Tara. “Huh. Well, that’s… Huh.”

“Very eloquent, whelp,” Spike said with a nearly straight face. Buffy was sure she was the only one who could see the minute shaking of his chest as he held in laughter.

Xander’s face reddened and he shrugged sheepishly. “Hey, if Dawn and Thomas were here, there’d be… four.”

Giles sighed, cleaning his glasses. “Yes, Xander. Than you for reminding us of the properties of addition.”

“Just so we’re clear," Xander continued hesitantly, "this isn’t what the new Scoobies are considering a positive trait, right?”

Buffy winced. “No, not a positive. Just… coincidental.”

Anya shrugged. “I, for one, am quite proud of it. I’ve initiated some spectacular deaths in my day.”

Giles pursed his lips. “Well, then we should all be quite glad you are no longer in the vengeance business, Anya.” He glanced over at Buffy, clearly trying to avoid a longer discussion. “I believe you were going to tell us about this new approach to, ah, fledgling control.”

Buffy waved toward Lawson. “It’s Sam’s idea, actually.”

Lawson shrugged. “Doesn’t much matter who tells the idea so long as it gets told, ma’am.”

“Lawson, tell your idea,” Buffy said, rolling her eyes. “We’re not big on modesty here.”

Anya made a small sound of disagreement. “Actually, you all are very prudish by dimensional standards. The fact that humans have to have separate areas for large groups of naked people speaks volumes.”

Faith raised a brow, looking at the blank faces around the room. “Think you lost us on that one.”

Giles sighed, giving the ceiling a clear ‘why me’ look. “She’s referring to nudist colonies,” he muttered.

Spike grinned and gave Buffy a suggestive look that sent a warm jolt through her belly. God, how did he even do that? After a century, she’d have expected to develop some kind of immunity to the many Spike expressions. Apparently not. Her husband leaned next to her ear, letting his cold breath shiver against her skin. “Have to find one of those someday, yeah?”

Buffy gave him a stern look. “Not a chance in hell, Elly. It’s bad enough that I’ve had to practically beat women off you with a stick for a century. I’d have to bring my axe if you went full nude.”

Anya raised a hand. “I vote fully nudity. I promise to only touch a naked Xander.”

“Ahn!” Xander’s face turned beet red.

Anya looked at him unapologetically. “What? I’m sure Spike is very well muscled under those clothes.”

Spike grinned at her. “You know it, pet.”

Buffy glared at him, something heated in her rising sharply and irrationally. “She  _better_  not.”

“It’s just a turn of phrase, Buffy. Don’t give me that look."

Giles coughed loudly. “Fledglings,” he said in a somewhat resigned voice, when everyone turned to look at him.

Lawson was looking at them all like he’d accidentally sat in on an x-rated movie when he was looking for something less insane, like  _Tarzan_. Or  _Terminator_.

“Sorry, Lawson, we can be kind of… a lot,” she said apologetically.

Mathilde chuckled at her. “Général, you have always been  _fougueuse_.”

“Foog-a-what-a-huh?” Xander blinked.

“Means she’s right feisty,” Spike said easily. He smirked at her. “Always been my hellcat.”

Faith laughed. “Except B’s gotten more claws over the years.”

Buffy grinned at her. “You know it.”

“Good lord!” Giles burst out. “Can you all concentrate for two minutes?”

Buffy bit back a smile. “Sorry, Giles.” She couldn’t help but feel warm inside, however. Something had shifted in the Scoobies since Willow’s departure. Some bit of resistance and nostalgia that had constantly reminded her how long it had been since she’d last called Sunnydale home. Her eyes flickered to Tara, and the blonde witch gave her a knowing look. Even tinged with sadness, the expression was one of kindness and warmth. Of course, Buffy realized, there was probably something telling in her aura. Some bit of color or motion that gave it all away.

Buffy glanced over at Lawson, and at Mathilde and Albert, and Faith, and all the remainders of her original Scooby crew.

“Right,” she said firmly, smiling. “Fledglings. Lawson, you have the floor.”

And then she tugged her somewhat bemused husband to her side and nuzzled into his shoulder.

“Wha’s all this?” he murmured at her.

“Just glad we’re repainting the house, Elly.”

Spike raised a brow. “Is that supposed to make sense, pet?”

“Nope.”

“Right. Just so long as we’re clear.” He shook his head then and chuckled, laying a soft kiss on her hairline as they both sent their attention back to Lawson.


	13. Sunnydale-at-Large: Revelations (Part 1)

“Even if you’ve got the best men, chances are good half of them are going to take shore leave if you give ‘em the option,” Lawson said calmly.

The guy was probably ripped, Xander observed silently, half-listening. And the clean-cut thing made him look like he was straight out of the 1940’s… which, well, he was, apparently. So that worked.

Not only was Xander now one of two Scoobies with a murder-spree free record, he was also pretty much one of three under fifty years old. The new Scooby gang was… old. Xander frowned. This was somehow getting more confusing in his head. He sighed, wishing Thomas was still around. He missed the easy-going Brit more than was probably socially acceptable. Thomas had been, he admitted, the closest guy friend he’d had in years. He glanced back at Lawson.

“So you don’t give them the choice,” Lawson continued. He looked over at Buffy with something like amusement. “And you sure as heck don’t stick a five star steak under their noses and tell them not to eat it.”

Buffy shrugged. “Can’t help it that I’m delicious.”

Spike smirked at her. “Damn good thing, too.”

Yeck. Spike, when allowed free rein of his mouth, was pretty much as bad as Anya with the constant innuendo-ness. Only, Buffy didn’t seem to care these days. Xander had the slightly uncomfortable feeling that his friend knew a lot more freaky  _stuff_  than he ever really wanted to know. Once, he had sort of wished for that – when he’d been the one wanting said freaky stuff. Now, she was another man’s wife and, frankly, a little scarier than she used to be (because, whoa, had most of the blonde  _I-hate-French-and-geez-my-hair-is-just-not-blonde-enough-but-I’m-still-pounding-on-hell-gods-because-I-love-my-sister_  Buffy gone by the wayside in a century and turned into _I-freaking-killed-Nazis-and-have-a-vampire-husband-and-listen-to-punk-rock-and-drink-gin-and-probably-eat-hell-gods-for-breakfast_ Buffy). She was like some weird cross of his grandmother and the heavy metal chick at the record store with all the piercings. And somewhere in there, too – in the bits of her humor and her smile and that annoyed little huff she made when things weren’t quite how she wanted them – was still the Buffy he knew and loved.

Not to mention she was still the Slayer. Well, one of them.

Once, he’d pretty much thought an evil hell god had to be the topper for weird in this town. He really should have bet against himself.

Faith sat up straighter in her chair, eyes narrowing at Lawson. “So, what’re you saying, sailor boy? Slayers shouldn’t be there?”

“Not if you want to have any shot at actually succeeding.”

Anya nodded. “He’s right, you know. Even for the newborns who aren’t completely bloodlust driven. The minute you stick a Slayer in the vicinity, their demon is immediately on kill mode. Simple predator-prey dynamics.” She gave Spike a hard look. “You should know that.”

Spike looked uncomfortable at that, glancing away. Buffy just appeared slightly confused. For once, Xander thought he got it. The man – er, vamp – was super whipped. And Buffy was in charge. The last thing he was going to do was tell his wife was that she couldn’t do her job. The job, as Xander understood it, Spike had pretty much convinced her to come back for.  _Totally get you there, man._  He’d learned to never get in between Anya and money a long time ago.

Faith looked unconvinced. “What? So you think us not being there will magically make all vamps model citizens?”

Lawson shook his head with a slight smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Same as with the Service, not all men are cut out for it. You all are still gonna have plenty of civilians to stake.”

“Kind of hard to do if we’re not around,” Faith retorted.

Albert shrugged. “You will not need to be truly away, Tueuse. Les enfants, their senses are… poor.”

Tara giggled slightly, flushing when the others turned to her. She looked at them all shyly. “It just made me imagine ninja Slayers.”

Xander laughed before he could stop himself. He grinned at Faith and Buffy. “That’s awesome, Tara. All in favor of having the Slayers carry katanas?”

Giles sighed, muttering something that might’ve contained the words  _absurd_  and  _childish_  and  _drink_.

“I do like Japanese swords,” Buffy thoughtfully, her eyes mirthful. By the way she glanced at Giles, it was apparent she’d caught most of whatever he’d said.

It was such a non-pre-jump Buffy thing to say (as Xander was pretty sure Giles didn’t actually have Japanese swords in the training room) that it struck him she’d probably actually used the things  _in_  Japan sometime in her last century of life.

“Tokyo was a lark,” Spike said with a nostalgic smile, confirming his suspicions.

Xander sighed internally. All in all, he felt he was handling things pretty well (after their initial return), considering how his once enemy and then chipped and sort of tolerated ally was now married to one of his best friends. It was both weirder and easier that Spike seemed to have actually grown up in the last century. Yeah, his innuendo was annoying, but the immature undercurrent to his behavior and the kind of defensive sharpness he’d worn like a second skin seemed to have abated almost entirely. There was a small bit of him that wondered if Spike would have turned into that in Sunnydale if given the chance. Of course, before the time travel stuff, giving the caged serial killer vampire a chance hadn’t seemed all that appealing. Scratch that. It had seemed sort of insane.

Faith frowned. “I don’t like it. If we’re too far away, some fledges could make a break for it. Don’t know about you guys, but I’m not really into the whole cross-city chase scene.”

Lawson glanced back at Albert and Mathilde, apparently looking for something in their expressions. With a blink, he shrugged. “Pretty sure, between all of us, that won’t be a concern.”

Xander felt suspicion trickle through him. “So you’re going to kill them if needed? Other vamps?”

Lawson threw him an amused smile. “You really don’t get the soulless monster gig, do you?” A frown flashed down his face. “If I actually am that. Soulless."

Tara made a small noise. “I don’t see the ring around your aura that usually denotes one,” she said softly. At his disappointed expression, she winced. “I’m sorry.”

Lawson shrugged. “Figures.”

Anya huffed. “Why do you all not get that souls are not normal for vampires? Whatever in the world has gone on with your precious Angel is out of the norm. It’s not correcting anything. It’s made him something he’s not supposed to be. That’s the entire point of cursing someone – to make them into something they wouldn’t otherwise be. And let me remind you, as the room’s resident ex-vengeance giver, curses are never supposed to be  _good_.”

There was a long silence, then Spike chuckled lowly. “Thanks, pet. Could’ve used you around way back to explain that bit.”

Buffy scrunched her nose with a rueful gaze. “I’m afraid we wouldn’t have listened then.”

“Certainly not,” Giles agreed softly.

Xander looked from his fiancée to the rest of the room, feeling a kind of heavy panic rise in him. “So this is a thing we’re accepting point blank?”

Buffy glanced over at him, some memory lighting her face. Xander didn’t have to ask what it was. It was the same one constantly glued to the edge of his vision when there was a vampire in the room.  _Jesse._

“Xander,” she said gently, and her green eyes looked at him with a kind of understanding that made his stomach clench. “Not all vampires are born the same.”

Anya nodded vigorously, looking incredibly calm. She didn’t know. He could never bring himself to tell her how he’d had to stake his best friend. Empathy wasn’t Anya’s strongest trait. And she was likely to tell him a bunch of stuff he didn’t want to hear. Like right now. “There are so many factors with half-breeds. How strong is the human spirit? How vicious is the demon? Vampire demons aren’t all the same, you know. And like tends to attract like. A weak vampire turns someone? You’re probably going to have a weak vampire child.”

Spike frowned, brows furrowing. He stared at Lawson with a hard gaze. “Reckon that’s right. Explains ol’ Batface’s line, at least. And some of the stupider lines I’ve come across.”

Anya smiled at him. “Exactly.”

Lawson looked between them. “Batface?”

Spike’s face flipped between a dozen emotions, settling on pained realization. “Bloody hell. I forget you don’t know jack about us.”

“Us?”

“Your family, mate. Ol’ Batface is your great-grandsire.” He grimaced. “The tosser.”

Buffy nodded. “Seconded. Seeing as he was responsible for me dying.”

Spike’s nostrils flared dangerously, a flash of amber crossing his eyes. “If the bastard weren’t already dead, I’d rip him to pieces for that. A fucking thrall. Bloody coward.”

Buffy touched his arm gently. “It was a long time ago, Elly.”

He growled. “Don’t care.”

Buffy just sighed with affectionate exasperation.

Anya shrugged at Lawson. “Anyway, even though you don’t have a soul, you do have a demon that could stand existing with the given blood of one who did. Stands to reason you’d have kind of a weird demon.”

Buffy gave her an odd look. “It’s all about the blood,” she said softly.

“Of course.”

Xander felt like his head was going to explode. “This is getting way too deep for me, guys.” He looked over at the very thoughtful Spike, wondering why the vampire looked a bit surprised. Then he realized Spike had never really been told he was normal. His sire had been insane, Angel was just an asshole, and he’d spent the last century pretty much avoiding everybody so timelines didn’t get screwed up. And suddenly Xander felt a whole lot better. He wasn’t the only one who didn’t know things. In fact, he realized with a strange feeling, his fiancée was pretty much the expert on the current topic. Even Giles seemed to be taking her knowledge as new information. But then, the Council was all about killing demons, not chatting with them over stuffy British tea.

“I’m sorry, Ahn,” he said softly, when the others had moved on to details about fledgling control that he had about negative interest in.

Anya looked at him, obviously surprised. “Did you do something I should be demanding an apology for?”

“Probably,” he admitted. “I’m sorry I’ve never asked about things. I just… it’s weird, you know?” He tried a laugh. “But apparently interspecies relationships are kind of normal now.”

Anya looked at him unblinkingly. “You’ve never liked that I used to be a demon, Xander. I know that.” Her face collapsed into something terribly vulnerable. “I’m trying to be a good human. For you.”

Oh god. He scooted closer to her and pulled her into his arms. “I know, Ahn. I know. I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath, hoping he wasn’t about to regret his next words. “Just… be you, okay?”

Anya looked up at him a bit fearfully. “What if you don’t like me?”

The anxiety in his chest lessened dramatically. With how confident Anya was 98% of the time, it was easy to forget that she needed him as much as he needed her. And wasn’t that a bit of crazy to realize. He needed Anya. Not just wanted. Needed. He glanced over to where Spike had Buffy wrapped casually in his arms as they chatted with the others, the pair looking nothing so much like some weird singular entity that just happened to have two bodies.

He looked back at his uncertain fiancée. “The first time we went out, to that high school dance, you pretty much talked my ear off about all horrible things you used to do.”

“They were all deserved,” Anya said defensively.

“It doesn’t matter, Ahn.” Xander sighed. Man, he was so out of his depths these days. “The point is, I still liked you. Just…” he winced, “don’t talk about mutilation of the guy parts, okay? That’s seriously my limit. No man should have to take that.”

The smile Anya gave him was blinding.

 

***

 

Tara paused for a long moment before dialing. She almost set down the receiver twice before it picked up.

“Hello?” Willow’s sleepy voice sounded over the line.

Tara bit her lip, wincing. She knew her heart was pounding like a jackhammer, abruptly undoing all the meditative calm she’d practiced for the last hour.

There was a quick intake of breath at the silence and a sudden shuffling, as if the redhead was sitting up abruptly. “Tara?”

Tara slammed down the phone, panting heavily. Goddess, but she couldn’t do it. Willow’s voice still made her chest feel ripped open, like a shard of glass had sliced right through. She dropped her fingers from the phone helplessly.

There was a small disturbance in the kitchen doorway and the blonde witch turned to find Buffy watching her with compassionate eyes. “It’s okay, Tara. It’s okay that you can’t talk to her.”

“H-how did you know?”

Buffy’s mouth twisted a bit wryly. “That look of pained terror is really only something a loved one can invoke.”

Tara blinked. “But Spike…”

Buffy laughed gently. “Oh, not Spike.” Her green eyes warmed, looking suddenly, incredibly alive, as if a century had given her not only increased age, but capacity for feeling. Tara wasn’t altogether sure it hadn’t. Her aura was almost luxuriously layered. “No, Elly would never.” She shrugged. “You have no idea how many Bits I’ve watched go through heartbreak and sobbing break-ups and stupid phone arguments.” There was a pause. “Once household phones were a common thing, anyway.”

Tara couldn’t help a smile. “The trials of being an immortal aunt.”

Buffy snorted. “Seriously.” She gave Tara an unreadable look. “Are you moving back to the dorms?”

Tara sighed, aching flooding her chest again. “N-not right now. Willow and I were supposed to have a room t-t-together a-and there aren’t any singles left. Xander and Anya are letting me stay with them for now.” She knew it wasn’t nice, but she couldn’t help but make a face. The bedrooms noises were… disturbing, at best. She’d very discreetly invested in ear plugs.

“Why don’t you stay with us for a while?” Buffy offered firmly. “We have a spare room. Thomas won’t be back until Christmas and Lawson is finding his own place, so it’s just a wasted space for the moment.” The Slayer threw her a mischievous look. “I promise Elly and I aren’t  _quite_  as bad as Xander and Anya. At least, we try not to be.”

Tara returned the look. “Well, I do have the earplugs already, just in case.” She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t want to be a b-burden.”

“Don’t be silly.”

Tara felt tension leave her shoulders abruptly. She hadn’t honestly known Buffy incredibly well before Glory, being newly inducted as a Scooby last year, but she had always admired the other woman and felt a certain kind of kinship with her after the loss of Mrs. Summers. It was easy to admit now that Buffy had also slightly intimidated her – this strong woman, so bound up in destiny and hard choices and the knowledge of a short lifespan. The current Buffy was an entirely different kind of woman, with a myriad of intentional life choices and experiences that left her mellowed and unhurried and at ease with herself. It was catching.

“I-if you’re sure. I have some tuition money for rent.”

“Don’t be silly,” Buffy said again. This time she grinned. “Elly made some good investments in the nineteenth century. We’re pretty much set for about ever, unless currency switches to sheep or something.”

Tara giggled. “That would be pretty hard to tote around.” She took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”


	14. Sunnydale-at-Large: Revelations (Part 2)

Spike finished the last drag of his cigarette on the front porch, stifling the urge to pace. Buffy watched him knowingly from the steps, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. Damn woman knew his every twitch these days. Not that he minded, really, but it was impossible to get a thing past her.

“It’s okay, Elly,” she said firmly.

He pursed his lips. “Just going along.”

“Wouldn’t matter if it was more.” She fixed a steady gaze on him. “We’ve had this chat already.”

“Yeah.” He lit another smoke, cursing his inability to still his fingers – or his mouth – without his eternal vice. Although, was it even a vice when it couldn’t kill you? He eyed the burning end of the cigarette. Well, guess it could, in a different sort of way.

Buffy’s low laughter warned him that he’d started pacing. Bloody hell.

He sighed, stiffening as the telltale itch of family rippled across his skin, rousing the demon to wakefulness. Lawson appeared a minute later.

Captain America nodded to Buffy first, to Spike’s amusement. In vamp circles, it would have been an insult, since Spike was made family, but here it was just right fitting. Besides, with his bit of witch mojo from way back, he didn’t even feel like family to the other vamp. Spike rubbed his arm with a frown.

“General,” Lawson greeted the Slayer politely.

Buffy answered with a nod, looking wryly amused. She was never going to escape the General moniker. Once Lawson had heard Albert call her by title, he’d started using it with a sense of relief that looked like it’d been bottled since his death, sitting to stew for sixty years. But that was Buffy, always knowing just how to rally the troops. Just by being her. His heart swelled with pride at the thought.

Lawson turned to him. “Spike.”

“Lawson,” he returned. He flicked his cigarette away. “Ready?”

“As ever.”

Buffy stood and stepped toward Spike, brushing warm lips briefly against his cheek. God, but he loved her warmth. He’d compared it to the sun long before he’d been able to safely stand under the ball of fire again and he still hadn’t revised his opinion on the matter. She was light. His light.

“I love you, Elly,” she murmured, her gaze holding him gently. Her expression burned with undertones of permission. Of understanding.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Stop that.”

“Loving you?” she asked archly, feigning innocence. “Sorry, you’re kind of a hundred years and change too late for that.”

“Bloody annoying chit.”

She grinned at him now, the look fading to something serious a moment later. She often accused him of rapid-fire mood switches (and yeah, he was guilty as hell in that arena), but hers were no better, though he’d long since stopped arguing the point. “Go hunt, William.”

Spike snorted. “William was a piss poor hunter, pet. Went once with my da as a boy and damn near shot my foot off.”

She laughed at that, waggling her brows. “Guess it’s a good thing you don’t need weapons anymore.”

Laughter welled in his chest at the reference. It was strange to think that their meeting at Sunnyhell High had once been a source of argument and anger. Now it was just proof of them. Impatience and fire and trust. Even then, trust. It was hard to remember anything now, about what he’d thought of her then. It was all too muddled and hidden within a century of her being his everything. But he remembered want. That, at least, hadn’t changed a whit. He fiddled with the ring on his finger, then surprised her with a quick, rough kiss. The kind that always left her gasping slightly, her lips just on this side of swollen.

She gave a slight growl when he broke away and he damn near told Lawson to sod off so he could shag her right then and there. “Elly, you’re a bastard.”

He smirked at her and danced back from the porch, leaping lightly down to the yard, nostrils flaring as he caught her budding arousal.  _That’s my girl._  “Don’t wait up, luv.”

Her green eyes flashed in the near dark. “You’re  _so_ mine.”

“Always,” he said softly, in a tone that changed her annoyed expression to one of love. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to that look from her, not ever.

He set off down the street, Lawson at his side, both silent for a long moment. Seemed ‘Merica had enough sense not to interrupt them, at least. Spike licked the remains of Buffy’s taste from his lips, savoring it on his tongue. Bloody hell, but he could feast on her for hours. With a shudder, he tugged his thoughts away and back to the night, willing the tightness in his trousers down.

“So,” Lawson said finally, with a touch of irony, “where’s the best place to grab a bite?”

Spike shrugged, feeling the leather of his duster roll against his shoulder blades. “Wherever suits your fancy, mate. I know sweet fuck all about it these days.” He pursed his lips again as they strode down the street, silent like the predators they were. When Lawson had asked him to accompany him for dinner, Spike had nodded before the thought actually sunk in. He knew ‘Merica was trying to prove his loyalty, trying to show that he was worthy of trust. And the man’d been without a family for sixty years, who the hell was Spike to deny him this small bit?

Still, it just wasn’t what he was these days. Buffy’s was the only neck he’d bitten in decades.

In some ways, that right brassed him off. Here he had the full acceptance of what he was from the woman he loved. Not even just tolerance. Actual, real sodding acceptance. Once, he’d dared not even hope for the first, never mind the second. He’d resigned himself to trying his soulless best to be a man. He failed a lot, between chains and robots and just generally being him. But he knew any other way meant not even having a chance to have her, so there really wasn’t any decision to be made.

And now… now that he practically had his wife telling him to taste test, he didn’t bloody want to. No, that was wrong. He wanted to. He wanted to bite and drink and own. But he didn’t want it connected to a person. Which just bolloxed the whole idea anyway. When did humans all start looking like his damn family, anyhow? Hell, he couldn’t even go and bite that Chinese bloke who worked at the deli because Jenna had gone and married one just like him, and they had three adorable little brats with his nose and her smile. Sod it all.

It was a long moment before he realized he was doing what he hated most: brooding.  _Oh, fucking hell. Next thing you know, I’ll be turning into Peaches. Perish the bloody thought._  He shook off his malaise with bright irritation, glancing over at Lawson. “So where’d you hear my name, anyhow? Not that many around still who remember Peaches. And fewer yet who know we’re related.”

Lawson shrugged. “Ran into some shorter Joe with a fedora and a suit a couple decades behind the times. Looked human but he didn’t smell like it.” He raised a brow at Spike’s frown. “Know him?”

“No, mate. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

 

***

 

Warren had to nearly shove Jonathan and Andrew through the door into the damp garbage heap called Willy’s Bar. Jesus, they were both such cowards – no wonder he was in charge in the future. Well, in  _his_  future. It hadn’t taken the trio long to realize they’d all gone to different possible futures. Andrew’s had just been stupid, and Jonathan’s incredibly lame. But not his. His was glorious.

Andrew yelped as Jonathan hit his shoulder from Warren’s light shove. “Hey! Watch it.”

“It wasn’t me,” Jonathan whined, glaring at Warren.

Warren just rolled his eyes. “You two are worse than a couple of girls.  _Move_.” He glanced around the bar, noting with a small tremor of anxiety that the demonic patrons had paused slightly and were eyeing the three of them with unfriendly speculation.

He sneered at them and cockily sidled up to the bar, where the bartender eyed him suspiciously, casting nervous glances at the crowd. “This’s no college joint, kid, get outta here,” he hissed. “You and your friends both.”

Warren ignored that and took a seat, to the bartender’s obvious annoyance.

“Seriously, man,” the weasel-looking guy said gravely, “you shouldn’t be here.”

Warren just tapped his fingers on the bar counter, scowling as Andrew and Jonathan stood clumped in the middle of the floor whispering urgently and nearly ducking at every leer sent their way. It was impossible to play it cool with them around. He should have just left their stupid asses in the basement. “See,” he said slowly, “I heard this is a place that knows about the Slayer.”

The bar lowered into abrupt quiet and Andrew let out a nervous giggle. Warren tried to hide his victorious smile. They were all such predictable sheep.

The bartender’s face grew tighter. “What do you want with the Slayer?”

Warren spread his arms magnanimously. “Why, to kill her, of course, like the rest of you fine fellows.” So what if that wasn’t exactly true. He wasn’t about to spill his evil plans to this bunch of idiots.

He expected scorn. He expected disbelief. He even expected laughter. He was a nerd, after all. And that’s what idiots did. They laughed when they thought they were invincible. Warren was really looking forward to the day he reminded them all they were just pieces of stinking flesh.

To his amazement, the demons did none of those things. Instead, they all stood up and glared at the trio. One of the demons, some gross blue thing, cracked his knuckles menacingly.

“Did he just say he wanted to kill the Slayer?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Oughta rip out that twerp’s insides.”

Jonathan gurgled and Andrew gave a wavering shriek as the muttering continued around the small room.

The bartender’s face grew smug and he leveled the man with a cold gaze. “If you three don’t leave right now, you aren’t getting out.”

Warren just blinked at him for a moment, dumbfounded. What was happening? He stood up slowly, hands raised in acquiescence. “Don’t have a cow, we’re on our way.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t come back, either.”

Andrew and Jonathan beat him to the door. Freaking cowards.

Once back outside, they gathered on the sidewalk to regroup.

“I guess that’s it,” Andrew said with a nervous laugh. “Looks like the Slayer’s got a bunch of demon friends."

Warren paused, eyes narrowing. “Yes… it does, doesn’t it?”

Jonathan frowned. “Yeah. So looks like your plan is off, Warren. C’mon, let’s go back and re-watch  _Battlestar Galactica_.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Warren said impatiently, wondering for the millionth time why he’d saddled himself with these idiots. “It looks like the Slayer controls the demons in this town. We control the Slayer and we don’t just control Sunnydale, we control the entire Hellmouth population.”

Jonathan scrunched up his nose. “That doesn’t sound like the future you said?”

Warren shrugged uncaringly. “Hey, whatever, this is close enough. She’ll still be our slave.” He smiled slowly. “In fact, this is even better.”

He set off down the street, knowing Jonathan and Andrew would follow a second later. “We’ll have the cerebral dampener done before you know it. But first… we need money.”

After all, Homja-maleev demon musk glands weren’t cheap.

 

****

 

Giles should have suspected something as straightforward as a bank transaction simply couldn’t happen in Sunnydale without demonic interference. He’d refused to participate in the ridiculous drive-thru service offered (something so convenient that only bloody colonials could have dreamed it up) and was calmly waiting in line to deposit a cheque.

He’d always liked banks. Calm oases of order and low voices (an environment sorely lacking in every other part of his life). Of course, he’d no more than had the thought while humming quietly in the back of his throat, than the front window burst open and in tumbled a M’Fashnik demon wearing red leather. The green reptilian beast roared in the middle of the lobby, sending some poor fellow careening through the window of the loans office as he tried to duck away.

“Blast!” Giles pulled down the screaming woman in line ahead of him. “Get down! Do get down!”

A quick analysis of the area revealed no particularly helpful weapons, and he unfortunately had a rather clear memory of the strength behind this kind of mercenary breed. They worked for the highest bidder to do whatever rampage or bit of mayhem was needed. But what in god’s name was it doing in the bank?

The Watcher didn’t have to wait long to find out, as the demon only seemed content to abandon the building once his arms were filled with several sacks of cash.

When the assault was ended, Giles looked around from his crouch beside the counter, taking in the bashed offices and the smashed windows and the slaughtered drapery. He closed his eyes in a long blink and then very calmly cleaned his glasses. He should have known better than to think of normalcy on the Hellmouth. He’d have to tell his Slayers about this immediately. Well, nearly immediately.

Giles stood shakily and brushed off his trousers, very calmly stepping over a splintered board on the way to the cashier’s window. The woman manning it had her mouth half opened in shock and she looked at him with a slightly glassy expression.

“Ah, yes,” Giles said uneasily. “Quite the odd bit of early Halloween, wouldn’t you say?” When she just blinked at him, he sighed and retrieved the crumpled cheque from his pocket. “I’d very much like to deposit this, if you don’t mind.”


	15. Two of a Kind

Buffy had barely finished pushing the button on the coffeemaker when she heard the front door slam open, followed by the familiar tingle that denoted  _Slayer_. She sighed and continued pulling a mug from the cabinet as Faith strutted into the kitchen.

Her sister Slayer shot her an amused smirk, raising a brow at Buffy’s obvious dishevelment; which today amounted to sweats, a messy ponytail, and gigantic bags under her eyes. “Looking a bit rough there, B.”

Buffy paused to give her a dirty look, which sent the other woman to laughing. Then she just shrugged. It wasn’t like Faith was wrong.

In addition to nightly slaying duties, she and Spike had been trying to keep daylight hours for Dawnie, with Spike driving the Bit to school in the morning after Buffy corralled her sister out of bed (she’d thought nearly a century of wrangling teenagers would make it easier, but no such luck). Sometimes Lawson stopped by afterward to update her on the fledgling situation, before making a dash back to cover using the sewer system (a family tendency, apparently).

It was a testament to the level of weird that enveloped the Summers household when Dawn barely batted an eye at the stranger in the kitchen the first time Lawson came by, a couple days after his arrival. She just narrowed her eyes and put a hand on her hip.

“You’re the new vampire, aren’t you?”

Lawson held out a hand in greeting. “Sam Lawson.”

“One of Angel’s,” Buffy supplied, from where she was pushing the button on the sputtering coffeemaker in what had very soon become a twice daily ritual.

Dawn pursed her lips at the newcomer. “You’re not going to brood around the house like he did, are you?”

Buffy hid a smile. “Sam, this is my sister, Dawn.”

Lawson smiled, a disarming motion that had probably helped him drain many a woman dry. “Not a fan of the Chief, either? I like you already.”

Dawn gave him an arch look. “I’m very likeable.”

Spike came in through the back door, rolling his eyes. “And so bloody modest.” He tilted his head toward the back door. “C’mon, Niblet. School time.”

Dawn’s eyes lit up when she saw the helmet in his hands. “Oh my god, we’re taking the motorcycle, aren’t we?”

Buffy sighed. Dawn had been begging Spike for rides on the stupid thing all summer, since the demons at their vow renewal had oh so nicely stopped needing them anymore. “Elly–”

“We’ll be safe as houses, luv.”

They all winced as Dawn squealed in delight, nearly bouncing out the door, helmet in hand.

“If we don’t go bleedin’ deaf,” her husband amended dryly. He gave Buffy a quick peck on the lips, nodded to Lawson, and was gone out the back door.

It had been a month since Lawson’s arrival, and the small window in which Buffy and Spike were able to sleep seemed to be shrinking nearly daily. Buffy glanced at the clock: 3:08pm. And Faith was here, which meant naptime before dinner was likely out of the question.

Her eyes felt foggy and heavy, to the point where no amount of tea could rescue her. When had staying up all night turned so draining? (And wow, her brain really needed to keep the exhausted vampire-related puns to a minimum.)

“You’d think that having a big team would mean more sleep, not less,” Buffy managed wearily, coming around to stand beside the other woman as she listened to the coffee brew.

Faith shrugged. “Hey, you’re the one running the vamp preschool, B.”

“That’s Lawson’s gig.”

“Right,” Faith drawled. “Because you’re not checking up on them every night.”

Buffy grimaced, heading to the coffeemaker as it sputtered its finish. “I can’t help it.”

Lawson, as it turned out, had indeed been the missing Plan B, as she’d suspected. So far, he’d managed to keep three fledglings on the straight and narrow. Another two had started out, but he’d had to stake them a couple days later, when they started ripping throats.

He’d taken the losses hard. Not because he cared about the fledglings all that much, but because he felt he’d failed her when an innocent died. Once, a long time, she might’ve felt the same. But people died a lot of terrible and stupid and mundane ways. Every one who didn’t die at the hands of a vampire was a victory. Everything else was just life in motion. She’d said as much to Faith once, and received a low whistle for her trouble, baffling her entirely.

“What?”

Faith quirked a brow. “You remember that whole thing where I tell you when you’re acting immortal and unrelatable?”

“Oh.”

Faith snorted. “Yeah. Not that I think you’re wrong, B. But you might keep the blasé attitude on the down low.”

Buffy knew she’d used to care more. That each life taken had felt like a physical blow. But she’d attended too many funerals for that nowadays.

How odd, then, that a man who was dead felt the losses more keenly than herself.

Spike had just shrugged at her musings. “’Cause he’s bloody Captain America, pet. Fight the good fight and all that rot. Do-gooder down to his core.”

Once, she might’ve said that sounded insane. How could a vampire with a half century of murder under his belt be a do-gooder? But there was that notion of time again, butting in with harsh sensibility. Doing good didn’t always mean being the white knight in shining armor. Hell, it never really meant that. Not for long, anyway. Those kinds of people stuck out like sore thumbs, and they were often the first to fall. She knew that. She’d died once as that figure, and nearly a second time. No, in practice, doing good often meant getting your hands filthy so the rest of the world could stand a bit cleaner. That was the lesson of war, in the end. No one was inherently good. No one was inherently evil. There was only doing. Pushing the mark a little farther toward dark or light by whatever means were necessary.

And right now, pushing that mark (that very grey, very blurred mark) was letting a vampire teach other vampires to hunt without killing and mostly keeping her Slayer-y nose out of it. Mostly.

“It still helps to intimidate the fledges when they can sense me around,” she said with a shrug.

Faith grinned at that. “Hell yeah it does. Top of the food chain, B.”

Buffy downed half of her mug of coffee and gave the other Slayer a less fatigued look as energy started to trickle through her veins. She was half-surprised Spike hadn’t started getting a caffeine fix by proxy. “So I’m guessing this isn’t just a social visit. Any news on our mysterious bank robbing demon? Or the idiots who are apparently setting out to kill us?”

The two women exchanged grins at that. It had become a sort of joke over the last month, the mysterious money-hungry demon who only sort of fell in their jurisdiction because  _demon_ , but otherwise seemed normal enough for the fine Sunnydale folks in blue to handle; and the three random human guys who’d gotten the shit scared out of them by Willy’s crew (which meant they couldn’t tell a harmless demon from a world-ender if their lives depended on it). Predictably, neither had surfaced since. Such was life on the Hellmouth: one series of weird after another.

“Nah,” Faith said after a moment, “there’s some kind of nest of lizard demon things in the caverns by the old Initiative. A couple patrons mentioned it to Willy over lunch, who then told Giles, who then got my tired ass out of bed with his usual rambling about shit I don’t care about.” At Buffy’s look, she winked and added, “Guess they’ve been hunting the peaceful demons who go near the place. Apparently they’re more sluggish in the daytime, so looks like we’re on point.”

Buffy glanced at the clock on the microwave again. Spike wasn’t due home with Dawn for another hour, since he’d offered to take the littlest Summers out for ice cream after school (thus potentially letting Buffy lounge around for that much longer). She frowned. They really needed to get cell phones. It was just that… it had never been a need before, since they’d only ever been apart for short stretches of time.

Sunnydale had changed that, and it was potentially the thing she hated most about coming back. Her husband had been her shoulder and support and mirror image for over a century. It never felt right, being just half of a pair. She glanced over at Faith. But then, this was another kind of pair. The Slayer kind. She smiled wanly.

“Let me get dressed and write Elly a note.”

 

***

 

The two Slayers took the scenic route to the old caverns, enjoying the mid afternoon sun.

Faith twirled her axe almost pensively, glancing around. “You know, I’m sorry I missed the whole modern Nazi love fest. Sounds like it was a bang up time.”

Buffy couldn’t help but laugh. “You would.” She shrugged. “Honestly, it gets a little fuzzy for me, mixed in with real Nazi memories.” An echoing memory of gunfire rattled in her head, remnants of PTSD she didn’t think were ever truly going to go away. They always appeared right along with the image of William’s son lying face down in a puddle of his own blood, his skull in three pieces on the sidewalk. His mother’s broken wailing as William and Spike pulled her away would probably stay there too, in the back of her head, in vivid Technicolor.

“Uh, B?”

Buffy snapped her eyes back to the present, looking as Faith motioned at her. “Gonna break that sword.”

Oh. She’d almost bent the handle. Buffy took a deep breath and loosened her grip. “I didn’t get it then. How awful it really was. I didn’t understand that the men were worse than the monsters.” She laughed darkly. “God, to think, I actually wanted them all out alive.”

“Weren’t most of them innocent?”

Buffy felt a shiver crawl up her spine. “No.” She glanced around as the caverns came into view. “Elly told me once… about the operation. They didn’t even sedate him again, once he came to on the table. They just cut his head open and welded a chip into his brain. And listened to him scream.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

The two Slayers were silent as they headed into the cool dark of the caverns, all the light turning to shadow.

“How far in?” Buffy murmured, scrunching up her nose as a spider web tickled her skin. Ugh.

“Apparently these guys like the deep and dark.”

“Fabulous.” For probably the millionth time, she wondered why the Slayer package couldn’t have included vampiric night vision. Instead, she took deep heavy breaths, trying to escape the feeling that she was back in the dark closest in the Paris bakery. The edge of her sword was vibrating and she paused in confusion. Oh. Her hands were trembling. God, she hadn’t been this bad off in years. Apparently, the Initiative and dark, enclosed spaces was enough to make it all rise again.  _And Elly isn’t here to make it all better._ He sometimes knew it was happening before she did, and would hold her tight and kiss her breathless and murmur sweet, dirty nothings into her ears until everything but his love for her had been driven straight out of her head. “Faith, I need you to talk to me.”

Her sister Slayer must’ve caught her tone. There was a slight pause. “Did you know Giles has started giving me an allowance?”

Buffy blinked. Well… random, but hey, she wasn’t in a spot to be picky. “That’s nice.”

Ahead of her, Faith snorted. “He doesn’t make that kind of money, and we both know it.”

Buffy raised a brow, even though the other woman couldn’t see. “I’m honestly not sure of his salary. Or, if I was, it’s gone by the wayside in the last century.”

There was another pause. “B, I saw a check from you on his desk.”

Damn. Caught. Buffy rolled her shoulders and sighed. “Okay, so I’m supplementing.” She touched Faith’s arm briefly. “You’re family. And Elly and I have a lot of money. It’s not like it’s a hardship for us.”

There was another silence, this one clearly embarrassed. “Yeah. Well. Thanks.”

“Slaying’s enough of a job. Didn’t think you probably wanted another one.”

Faith laughed at that. “Got that right. Cocky Council assholes, thinking Slayers won’t last to be adults. What the hell do they know, anyway?”

“Not much. Thank god.” Buffy drew out a long breath, feeling all of her tension fading. “Thanks, Faith.”

“Anytime, B. Ready to kill some lizard demons?”

“You have no idea.”

The description of the lizards, as it turned out, wasn’t exactly wrong, per se, but… “Um, Faith, did Giles say anything about these guys breathing fire? Because I’m pretty sure that’s fire.”

The beasts were thick limbed and long, like komodos, but their necks were twice as tall and – yep, that was definitely fire. Buffy rolled out of the way as a hot blast jetted toward her, setting the stone beside her aflame. The acrid scent of burning filled her nose.

Faith rolled the other direction. “Damnit! I’m going to kick his Watcher ass.” Her sister turned back to her, her eyes widening. “B! Your hair!”

Buffy’s eyes widened. Oh, son of a bitch. That wasn’t just rock burning. She flung herself to the ground, ignoring the sting of burns on her hands as she patted down her hair. Once she was sure she was no longer in danger of becoming a Roman candle, Buffy swung herself to her feet, dodging another roar of fire.

Luckily, while incendiary, the lizard demons weren’t all that fast. Or bright. Buffy cut off the last one’s head with a vicious thrust and then stood panting. She gingerly touched what was left of her hair (and it didn’t feel like much), before wincing at Faith’s apologetic expression. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Kinda rocking a Princess Di.”

“Crap.” Buffy sighed, scowling at the smell of burnt hair. She glared over at the dead lizards. “I’m really tempted to drop one of these in Giles’s lap right now.”

“I’ll support that.”

 

***

 

"Giles, is there a reason you didn't mention that these things could breathe fire?"

He blinked at Buffy, looking aghast at her new hairdo. She hadn’t been brave enough to look in a mirror yet, but everyone’s initial reaction didn’t give her much hope. She took a deep breath, recalling Spike’s dismay at her short hair in the 20’s.  _It'll grow back,_ she'd told him. Of course, that reassurance didn't work quite as well on herself.

Giles shook his head slightly, obviously trying to look away from whatever disaster her hair had become. "I– I beg your pardon?"

"Fire. You know, all with the hot and blistery?"

"Yeah, was almost a crispy moment there," Faith added, grimacing at a small burn on her leg.

Giles swiftly removed his glasses. "My deepest apologies, ladies. They usually, err, don't."

"Don't?"

"Ah, breathe fire."

Buffy and Faith traded a resigned look.

"Looks like we got the Hellmouth special," Buffy said with a sigh.

Giles started pouring over one of his books with extreme fervor. “Indeed. A new subspecies perhaps. How interesting.”

Faith rolled her eyes and flopped onto the couch. “Right. Interesting. Of the barbequed variety.”

Giles looked up at that, turning a light shade of pink. He promptly shut the book. “This can wait until later.”

Buffy glanced over at Giles’s clock on the wall and leapt to her feet. “Oh, no. I’m late for dinner. Elly’s going to kill me.”

Giles gave her a small smile. “I’m quite certain your husband will do nothing of the sort.”

Buffy sighed, touching her hair again. Ugh, it felt like straw. “What about when he sees this?”

“When he learns about that, I rather suspect _I_  may be the one in danger of dying,” Giles said dryly. “Do see that he doesn’t succeed, if you don’t mind?”

Buffy shot him an amused smile. “I’ll do my best.”


	16. Trouble in Paradise

She expected Spike to be shocked. She even expected him to be a bit distraught. She didn’t expect him to be furious. Which was really her own stupid fault, because she’d known her temperamental lover for a century and sometimes actually mistook him for someone with an ounce of reason when it came to her being injured.

He’d opened the front door nearly before she’d gotten there, no doubt sensing her presence. His jaw dropped at her appearance.

“What the bleeding hell?”

Dawn gave her a disbelieving look from where she was returning from throwing her backpack on the couch. “Geez, Buffy. Did you get in a fight with a forest fire?”

Buffy just sighed. “Lizard demons, actually. Fire breathing ones. So… dragon demons? I don’t know. Apparently they’re new.” She shrugged and started pulling off her slightly charred boots in the entryway. “Faith and I had to go take out some troublemakers in the old Initiative caverns.” She looked up, meeting her husband’s shocked gaze. “I left you a note, Elly.”

He just stared at her. “Just got home.”

“Okay.” She frowned as silence met her. “Elly?”

She saw Spike’s eyes flash gold. Oh, crap. “Go upstairs, Dawn,” he said tightly, never moving his gaze from Buffy.

Her sister’s eyes widened almost comically. It wasn’t lost on any of them that he rarely called her by name. Dawn gave Buffy a last uncertain look and very uncharacteristically went upstairs without another word.

Buffy sighed and leaned against the stairwell, pursing her lips once her sister’s door was shut. “Alright. Out with it.”

There was single moment of silence, then, “ _What the bloody fuck were you thinking?!”_

Buffy touched the remains of her singed hair regretfully, raising a brow. “I was thinking that these stupid demons weren’t supposed to breathe fire.”

Spike snarled at her, clenching his fists at his sides. She knew he was itching to shake her. Or deck her. Instead, he just glared at her. “And you didn’t think it could wait until I got home.”

“I  _thought_  that I needed to do my job,” she said evenly.

“And I thought you had a fucking lick of sense! You could’ve been burnt to a bloody crisp!” Desperate fear etched his every motion as he gestured wildly at her, slipping into vamp face in his agitation.

Buffy took a deep breath. At least the last hundred years had taught her that screaming back at her husband just made the whole thing a million times worse. If only her temper had gotten that memo. “It’s not like I went off on my own, Elly,” she said between clenched teeth.

“Right. Because Cowgirl’s a load of good against firebreathers,” he said caustically.

“Last time I checked, you weren’t freaking fireproof either, William!”

“I’d rather burn than have you do it, you stupid bint!”

“Well, that’s too fucking bad!”

They stared at one another, trembling.

“Fine,” Spike said finally, in a deathly quiet voice, lisping over his fangs. “You wanna get yourself killed, you be my sodding guest. Just don’t expect me to stick around for it.” Then he whirled abruptly and slipped through the front door, slamming it so hard on the way out that the house trembled.

Buffy felt sudden tears well up in her throat, hot and heavy, as her body reeled. Her mind ran through a mixed litany of  _Elly left_  and,  _God damnit, Elly!_  She knew he wasn’t really leaving her – they’d had incredibly far worse fights throughout the years – but it didn’t make her hurt any less. She collapsed on the bottom stair, biting her lip so she didn’t start sobbing.

There was a slight motion at the top of the staircase, followed by Tara’s hesitant voice. “Buffy? Is everything okay?”

She burst into tears.

The blonde witch steered her toward the couch, but Buffy wasn’t really sure how. Her eyes seemed to have stopped working. Tara just sat with her and rubbed her arm comfortingly until she could breathe again.

“Sorry,” Buffy managed finally, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. She paused, wrinkling her nose. “Ugh, geez. I am an absolute disaster.”

“We’re all allowed to be those sometimes,” Tara said kindly. She paused. “D-do you want to talk about it? Y-y-you don’t have to though,” she added quickly, “if you don’t want to.”

Buffy gave the other woman a grateful, somewhat wry look. “Well, I’m guessing you heard most of it. We weren’t exactly being quiet.”

“Not very,” Tara admitted softly.

They sat for a moment in comfortable silence and then Buffy sighed, twisting her wedding ring with a heavy ache in her chest. “He’s angry because I didn’t give him the chance to protect me.” She paused, throat dry. “It’s just been him and me for a hundred and twenty years, Tara. We’ve had a lot of family, but our first responsibility was always each other first.”

Tara gave her an understanding look. “Spike loves you.”

“I know.”

“And he’ll come back.”

“I know.”

Tara quirked a brow. “And you don't sound any happier because…?”

“Because I’ll still be a Slayer when he does,” Buffy said with a sigh, resting her head in her hands. “Yes, what I did in the caves was dangerous. It might’ve even been super risky. But it wasn’t reckless. It was normal, ‘I’m a Slayer and this is what I have to do’ risky.” She regarded Tara sadly. “I’m not on vacation anymore, Tara. Elly can’t always be by my side. I’m going to have to be in danger without him sometimes.”

“And Spike doesn’t like that,” Tara said softly.

Buffy snorted, smiling slightly despite herself. “Of course not.” She bit her lip, her smile fading. “I don’t like it, either.”

Tara made a small noise and rose from the couch, pulling Buffy with her. Her eyes were warm and understanding. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

Buffy gave her a grateful look. “Okay.” She paused, touching her hair. “Do you think we can do anything with this?”

Tara eyed the mess on her head narrowly, nodding. “I used to cut my brother and dad’s hair, growing up. They didn’t want to spend the money at barbershops. I’m pretty good with short haircuts.” She smiled a bit mischievously. “And I don’t charge.”

Buffy laughed a real laugh. “Then I’m all yours.”

“Why, Buffy! Don’t tease.”

“You flirt.”

Tara just grinned and led the way up the stairs. “Well, your husband isn’t around to stop me.”

They were almost at the bathroom door when Dawn peeked out from her room.

“Is Spike coming back?” Dawn’s eyes were wide, her lip trembling.

All of Buffy’s sudden good humor crashed straight through the floor.  _Oh, Dawnie._  Amongst probably a million other things, it was easy to forget that mom dying and Hank Summers abandoning his children was a much fresher memory for her little sister than it was for her.

“Of course he’s coming back,” Buffy said firmly.  _He knows I wouldn’t bother being alive without him._ But she didn’t say that part aloud. No point in traumatizing her sister over something that was just plain fact. “He just needs to go blow off some steam,” she added, in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. Dawn didn’t look like she bought it, and Buffy sighed. “Look, Bit. If Spike was going to leave me, he’s had plenty of chances in the last one hundred and twenty years.” She paused, grimacing. “Pretty sure if he was going to leave, he would have done it in 1958, when I crashed his brand new car.” She held her sister’s gaze. “Spike isn’t leaving us.”

Dawn looked like she wanted to believe her. “He better not,” she whispered finally. And shut the door again.

Buffy winced. “Crap.”

Tara just pulled her into the bathroom. “You still don’t drive?” the blonde witch asked softly, clearly trying to change the subject.

Buffy gave her a wry look as she positioned herself in front of the sink, letting Tara adjust the tap as she wanted it. “Not if I can at all avoid it. Most days, I just really miss carriages.”

Tara giggled at that and Buffy felt her chest ease slightly. After a few minutes, she tried to let thought escape her entirely as Tara washed her scorched hair with firm but kind hands and then positioned the Slayer on the toilet seat so she could work some barber-y magic. Still, listening to Tara hum and snip at her hair left far too much time for thoughts.

“Do you think some things are just bound to happen in every dimension, no matter what?”

Tara gave her an unreadable look, her scissors pausing in mid-snip. “You’re talking about where you went. To that r-r-resurrected Buffy.”

Buffy sighed. “I just… it could’ve so easily been me, Tara. It  _is_  me in another dimension.”

“But it’s not you and Spike here.”

Buffy shut her eyes against another onslaught of tears. “But what if it ends up that way?” She waved away Tara’s obvious interjection, plowing forward. “I mean, not like  _that_. It could never be like that. I love Elly more than life and I’d never in a million years treat him… just  _no_. But…” She took a deep breath, then said in a tiny voice, “What if Sunnydale breaks us, Tara?”

The blonde witch didn’t answer immediately, and Buffy found herself immensely grateful for it. Easy reassurances could be found anywhere.

“Buffy, what would you say is the hardest thing you and Spike have ever made it through?”

Well, wasn’t _that_  a question. “A few years after we jumped, Spike killed four men. No, not even killed. He ripped them to shreds. To protect me.” She could feel Tara’s shock, and looked at her with an arched brow. “There’s a lot Elly and I haven’t told you.”

Tara just nodded, looking a bit embarrassed. “It’s not really our business.”

“Thank you.” Buffy sighed. “Well, that’s it. That was the hardest. He thought I was going to stake him for it. I knew I should have. Would have, before the jump.”

Tara hummed slightly again, snipping at the hairs on the base of her neck. “B-but you didn’t.”

“No.”

“What did you do?”

Buffy paused, a rush of memories flooding back. Her sobbing against a distraught Spike, too incoherent for him to understand. “I chose him.” She laughed slightly and said it again, softly. “I chose him."

“And do you think Spike would ever do anything different than choose you, sweetie?”

Buffy exhaled a breath she didn’t remember holding. “I guess not.”

Tara put down the scissors with a small snap of satisfaction. “All done.”

Buffy sent her fingers to touch the mop of much softer and smoother hair on her head. It came down to just above her jawline, after all was said and done.  _Could have been worse,_  she thought ruefully. She gave Tara a warm smile. “Who knew a free haircut was also going to come with complimentary therapy?” At Tara’s blush, she touched the other woman’s arm lightly. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Buffy.”

 

***

 

“You said he was coming back,” Dawn accused, arms crossed angrily as she stared at her sister’s curled form on the couch.

Buffy sighed, glancing out into the darkened night as she set aside the book she was reading. It was her favorite edition of  _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_. She related more to Alice than was probably healthy – it seemed like most of her life had been spent down the rabbit hole. These days, she just wasn’t sure if she’d come back up or gone in deeper. “He  _is_  coming back, Dawnie.”

“Then why are you acting so weird?”

Buffy raised a brow. “I’m sitting on the couch and reading.”

“It’s 2am.”

“Which begs the question as to why your scrawny butt is still awake.”

“Hey!” Dawn glared at her. “Watch who you’re insulting, miss-I-look-like-I-sat-in-a-bonfire.” She pursed her lips defiantly. “And you didn’t even go slaying tonight. I heard you ask Faith to cover things.”

Damn eavesdropping sister. Buffy shrugged in defeat. “I can’t sleep without him, okay, Bit?”

Dawn just looked at her for a long moment, nibbling on the bottom of her lip. “Okay,” she said finally, then came over and joined Buffy on the couch, somehow managing to steal half the couch blanket in the process.

“You have school in the morning,” Buffy muttered.

“Guess you’ll have to wake me up,” Dawn retorted, settling in farther. “Since you’re not sleeping.”

“Out of a hundred Bits, you’re still the most irritating, Dawnie.”

Her sister smirked at her proudly, in a way that would've made Spike laugh in delight. “That’s because I’m the original.”

 

***

 

Buffy was on her third cup of coffee by the time she got Dawn off to school, managing to wrangle Xander into dropping the youngest Summers off. Somehow, she didn’t think an overdose of caffeine was going to make her any better of a driver.

Her friend met her at the door, expressing the expected surprise over her hair. When that was taken care of, he watched her with a bemused smile. “So, our tanned bloodsucker is busy this morning?”

Buffy bit her lip. “He’s…”

“They’re fighting,” Dawn interjected, coming down the stairs.

“Dawn.”

Her sister gave her an innocent look. “Well, it’s true.”

Xander looked at her with unexpected worry. “You guys okay?” At Buffy’s raised brow, he shrugged sheepishly. “What? You’re like  _the_ couple.”

Buffy felt the edges of her mouth quirk. “ _The_  couple?”

He rolled his eyes at her. “You’re the freaking epitome of eternal love and it’s kind of sickening and Anya and I could only hope to have anything a centimeter close to it, okay?”

Buffy laughed before she could help herself. “We’ll be fine, alright?”

Much like her sister yesterday, Xander looked unconvinced. Was she seriously that bad at reassurance these days or were the bags under her eyes just making everything out of her mouth seem wearied and uncertain?

“But Spike’s not here?” Xander frowned deeply. “As in, he’s left the house?”

Apparently she was going to be having this same conversation with everyone in Sunnydale.

“Yes. He needed to blow off some steam.”

“Does… he do that often?”

Buffy bit her lip and looked away. “No. Usually, we just have it out until, um…” she trailed off, looking at Dawn meaningfully.

Xander’s eyes widened. “Ah. Got it. No destruction of house or innocence. Bingo.”

Dawn huffed. “I  _am_ standing right here, you know.”

“Yep,” Xander said cheerily, “and now you’re going to school with me.”

Dawn gave them both a disdainful look and slipped out the front door.

Xander rubbed the back of his neck, watching as Dawn climbed into the passenger seat of his car. “Can I borrow Dawn sometime?”

Buffy blinked at him. “Borrow?”

“Yeah. I’m hoping if I show Anya what living with a teenager is like, she’ll stop throwing me hints about our 2.5 children we’re supposed to have someday.”

Buffy snorted. “Xander, if you want, I have a truckload of English teenagers on call whose parents would kill for a vacation.”

“Are we talking Thomas level kill, here?”

“And worse.”

Xander shot her a grin. “I may take you up on that sometime.” He stepped away to head back to his car, pausing on the edge of the porch to look back. “Look. I know we’re not…” He stopped and shook his head, clearly trying to start his words over. “Just… let me know if you need anything. Okay, Buffster?”

Buffy smiled at the old nickname. “I will. Thanks, Xan.”

“Yeah. Anytime.”

Buffy gave him an odd look. “Tara said that, too.”

Xander laughed as he walked away. “Well, what can I say, you’re well liked.”

 

***

 

It took Buffy all of two minutes after her sister’s departure to realize she’d had enough. She was done waiting. Stupid, stubborn vampire husband. It was time to find him and finish their argument somewhere that held fewer breakable things and cherished memories. Of course, staying up all night (again) hadn’t done her any favors, and she hadn’t eaten anything (as her stomach furiously reminded her); but hell, chances were good Spike was sloshed to the brim, so at least it might be a semi fair fight.

However, she’d no more than started pulling her unfortunately sort of charred boots back on when the basement door opened and Albert peeked out, hiding expertly in the shadow of the door. “Général? Il y a quelque chose qui cloche.”  _There is something wrong._

Buffy felt her shoulders slump. That was the phrase of the Hellmouth, apparently.  _There is something wrong_. And right now,  _wrong_  was keeping her from the love of her life. She raised her face to the ceiling with a low growl.  _I really hate you bastards_.

“I’ll be right there,” she said wearily, stripping off her single boot and padding over to join the vampire near the stairs.

She heard it first, a kind of low rushing hiss, as if the washer was just starting. When she tromped down the stairs, she realized exactly was it was. One of the massive basement water pipes had burst. Water was spewing all directions, already a quarter inch deep on the floor.

"Oh god."

Mathilde nodded in greeting as she tried to stack her and Albert's belongings out of the way of the sudden indoor storm, looking entirely exasperated. "Is a strange place for rain, no?"

Buffy gave her a rueful look. "You're telling me." She squinted into the spray. "Let me make sure all the upstairs curtains are drawn and then we'll get you both out of here."

"Oui, Général."

Once the three supernatural beings had managed to salvage Albert and Mathilde's belongings and wrestled them temporarily into the living room, Buffy braved the basement again, searching for the water shut-off valve. She nearly screamed in frustration as water kept getting in her eyes, cursing herself for forgetting this bit about the house. Then she paused. Well, chances were actually pretty good she'd never known where the valve was. 

"Wish that made me feel better," she muttered, sloshing through the now ankle-deep water.

She felt her husband before she saw him, just as she finally found the stupid shut-off valve. With an angry twist, she tugged it shut, and the heavy ceiling spray slowly lessened down to a trickle. Setting her shoulders, she turned and met Spike's form on the stairs. He was wearing a green tee shirt and jeans, his hands scrunched low into the front pockets. He looked serious; his brow slightly arched in question, his blue eyes tumultuous and shockingly sober.

For a long moment, they just looked at one another, and Buffy realized she had no idea if they were done fighting or not.

"William–"

"You're a bloody infuriating bint," Spike told her flatly, slowly descending on the stairs, eyes never leaving hers.

Apparently not done. She heaved a shuddering sigh. "Elly, can we please do this later? There's a bit of a flood, if you didn't notice."

"Can see that," he told her lowly, stepping into the submerged floor with her. He was going to ruin his boots, she thought absently. He stepped through the water with a kind of grace that still took her by surprise sometimes, all singularly beautiful, predatory movements.

"Well, if we're going to have it out,” she said wearily, “can we do it somewhere less with the Noah's Arc situation? I'm pretty sure two of each animal is going to show up at any moment."

He reached her, not answering, his presence so familiar and tingling that she felt her skin goosebump. Inherently, she relaxed in the feel of him. Even when they were furious with one another, he was still home. Still her place to be.

"And you look like a drowned rat," he told her casually, after a minute, the barest hint of a smile flicking across his face.

"Gee, thanks, honey," Buffy retorted bitingly, crossing her arms. "Thought soaking myself in cold water would balance out the whole fire thing. Didn't work, I guess."

Spike grabbed her arms, uncrossing them in an instant, blue eyes flashing as he pulled her within arms reach. He growled, and she instinctively melted at the sound (even though this was  _so_  not the time).

" _And_ ," he continued with sharp emphasis, his tone measured and slow, "you're still sodding magnificent." His cool mask broke and she watched as fear and apology and love raced across his face. "And I‘m a completely stupid git who ought to be throttled.”

Buffy threw herself into his arms. " _Elly_."

Cool lips brushed across her lips and chin and neck as small noises of devotion and atonement were whispered into her ears. Spike's arms held her fast against his chest, her wet clothes nearly gluing him to her. She pulled back with a wrinkled nose as she felt the friction.

"I'm soaked."

Spike just smirked at her. "Best get you out of those clothes then, yeah?"

She looked at him and then glanced at the standing water and back again. His expression was overflowing with undisguised lust, so heavy he nearly vibrated with it. "Oh, what the hell." She stripped, flinging her clothes into the slowly eddying water.

Spike growled his approval and made short work of his own clothes before striding forward and pinning her against the washing machine, grinding his erection into her clit with hard purpose as he laved her neck with his mouth, near to biting and not quite. He was going to drive her insane.

"Fuck, Elly." She shifted slightly against the cold metal, panting. "We're going to break this, you know."

That earned her a smirk. "We'll buy a new one." Her husband paused, glancing up at the broken pipes. "Think we'll need to redo the whole damn basement, at this rate."

A shiver of anticipation went through her, and she licked her lips. "Redo entirely, huh?"

Spike's gaze turned amber. "You minx," he rasped.

"Always." Then she shoved him away roughly, so that he fell on his ass into the water with a small splash. She was straddling him before he could rise, using all of her Slayer strength to keep him pinned to the flooded floor.

He snarled at her, suddenly in game face as she wantonly teased his cock with her center, never letting him enter. She kept firm hands on his chest as she bent down to his ear, pitching her voice low and sensual. "If you want it, William, you're going to have to work for it."

He full out roared at her for that, bucking with such intense force that he sent her tumbling over his head and rolling into the water near the center of the basement. She sprang to her feet as he lunged for her, missing her arm by a hairsbreadth and instead smacking a low metal table Albert and Mathilde had been using for card games. Spike simply flung it against the wall, up and out of the way, amber eyes glued to hers.

“You’re _mine_ ,” he growled, stalking forward, somehow managing to look like both predator and loving husband as he hunted her.

Buffy flung a low kick toward his knees, which he sideswiped with an easy leap. “Always yours,” she agreed breathlessly, dodging a grab for her torso and darting away.

She continued to avoid his hands and grabs for her, watching as her husband slowly demolished all the remaining furniture in the basement. She landed a few hard hits to his chest and legs, moves only meant to slow and knock off-balance.

By the time he cornered her again by the washing machine, they were both grinning.

“God, but I love you, Buffy,” he said hoarsely, pinning her between his arms, his legs tight around her on either side. She could have broken the hold if she wanted (and he knew it), but the game was over.

Buffy stroked her vampire’s face, tracing the edges of his brow ridge and the rounded juts of his cheekbones, thickened to support the exposure of his fangs. “I love you above everything, Spike,” she said solemnly, not missing the small quirk of surprise on the edges of his lips at that choice of his names. There was a kind of key to it, one they rarely acknowledged. William was the first. Not just the human, but what the human became. A free vampire ruled by love – of sire and mother and blood and hunt. Elly was her husband. Her other half and mirror-image, for a hundred and twenty years. Partner and lover and family man. Spike was Sunnydale. He was her enemy and her ally and her constant annoyance. A vampire she’d never been able to kill, even when there had been a dozen chances. Spike was monster and man and lethal killer and lover caught in what had been a somewhat unwilling transformation. He had been ridiculed by her and taunted by others, but never beaten. It was Spike who had endured the most pain, in the end. It was Spike who was still enduring pain, in some other dimension.

Her husband held her gaze for a long moment, nuzzling into her hand before letting his game face drop. “We’re never going to be that other pair, luv. You know that, right?”

Buffy sighed in exasperation. “Did you talk to Tara or just read my mind?”

He grinned. “Gotten pretty good at reading that odd little head of yours over the years.” He bent and licked his bite marks, sending deep jolts of pleasure straight to her clit. “Pretty sure,” he murmured between licks, as she writhed against him, “that I’ve gone and gotten plenty brassed at you loads of times over the years.”

“But I wasn’t a Slayer then,” she murmured, clenching her fingers tightly into his shoulders as her head tilted back.

Spike snorted at her. “Bollocks. You’ve always been a Slayer, holiday or no.” Amused blue eyes met hers. “Buffy, I’ve always known what you are. Bloody hell, it’s why I even know you in the first place. And I’ve always known there’d be a time where you’d have to do this sort of rot again, even in the times I couldn’t be around.”

“And?” she asked softly.

“And I’m just prolly always gonna be a complete berk when it comes to the possibility of losing you.” He kissed her slowly then, with such deep intensity that he stole the breath right from her lungs. “If I didn’t leave when you hated me, don’t think knowing you’ve loved me for over a century is gonna do the trick.”

She smiled at him impishly. “Are you sure? That sounds like the kind of idiotic thing you might do.”

He laughed, low and easy and loving. “What? And leave you to menace Sunnyhell without me? Sounds right boring.”

She didn’t know what else to say to that, besides making a mental note to remind Tara that she was right. Failing all words, Buffy simply tugged her husband closer and kissed him until she was nearly dizzy with lack of oxygen. Spike had her up on top of the washing machine almost before she knew it, placing her legs on either side of his waist.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” he rasped, plunging into her without further preamble, his cock thrusting up so hard into her that she cried out with equal parts pleasure and pain. She gripped the edges of the ancient washing machine with experienced tightness. They’d destroyed one once before in 1986, when Spike wanted to try it out on the spin cycle. But this time it wasn’t really about the washing machine at all. It was fucking her against an article of old Sunnydale, claiming her for his against the cold steel because he could. And because he loved her.

He fucked her hard, driving the machine screeching against the cement wall, making her clench around his cock violently as every muscle in her tensed to hold to her metal support and simultaneously capture his cock.

“Fuck,  _Spike_! Ungh! Oh god!”

He growled low and abruptly flipped her over, bruising her hips on the washer’s edge and pushing her stomach flat against the top. He buried himself into her again and thrust harder as she helplessly moaned, nipples puckered against the steel with almost agonizing friction. One of his hands strayed to her clit and rubbed her furiously, with harsh heavy taps that drove her off the edge and sent her crying out as she spasmed again and again. He kept stroking her and fucking her though, and she almost passed out from the tightness of clenching. She arched her back helplessly and he shoved her back down.

“God damnit, Elly! Bite me!”

She was abruptly pulled up from the washer and against her husband’s back, bobbing on his cock as he wrapped tight arms around her waist.

“You’re mine,” he repeated hoarsely in her ears. “My Slayer.”

“Your Slayer,” she mewled, tilting her neck to the side and wrapping her arms up and around his neck. She felt the shift of him to game face; the slight adjustment of his presence, the stiffening of the cords in his neck, the slight increased hardness of his cock. His fangs cut through her with such bright agony and bliss that she tumbled right over into orgasm again as he roared his own completion against her, and she blacked out.

When Buffy came to, she was cradled protectively in Spike’s arms on top of the remains of the washing machine. “How long was I out?”

Spike touched his forehead to hers with incredible tenderness. “Just a few moments, luv.”

“Good.” She squirmed in his arms to a sitting position. “Where have you been?”

He sighed. “Got pissed, then went and read Rupes the riot act.” He gave her an inscrutable look. "Then Watcher and I settled down and researched."

"Huh? What in the world were you researching?"

"Claims," he said a bit shyly.

She blinked. "Claims? I thought those were a myth."

Spike shrugged. "Seems they are, but had to look, yeah?" He wiped a sodden lock of hair away from her cheek. "Needed to know if there was some way I could... be closer."

Buffy felt tears well in her eyes and she looked down at where their hands were now intertwined. "You have every bit of me, William."

"I know, luv." He gave the end of her nose a brief peck. "Anyhow, didn't find much in general of use on the magic front."

"That's okay." There was a pause, making her look up with a raised brow. "Are you trying to imply there was another front?"

He looked a bit rueful. "Might've picked us up some mobiles."

Buffy started giggling. "You did? Really? I was just thinking about them yesterday."

He kissed her solidly on the lips this time. "Great minds and all." He chuckled. "Rupes mentioned it first, matter of fact."

"Oh, now you're just ribbing me."

"Nah, is funnier that it's the truth." Spike pulled her tighter against him. "Seems I'm not the only one who wants to keep tabs."

"We have a good family," Buffy murmured, nuzzling against his neck.

He purred at the motion, then abruptly pulled away, a stern glint to his eyes. "No more of that."

"Why not?" she pouted.

"'Cause I can see you haven't eaten a damn thing since I left. Guessing you haven't slept, either."

Buffy shrugged, then she gave him a hard look. "Have  _you_  eaten or slept?"

"No, but I'm not running around looking like a damn zombie.” He motioned up the stairs. "Got some pastries on the counter. Now up with you."

“Elly, we’re not wearing any clothes.”

“Well, it’s our bloody house, and the Bit and Glinda are off and about. Think Albert and Mathilde can survive the embarrassment for a few, yeah?”

Buffy rolled her eyes, untangling herself from her husband as she climbed down from the washer and started toward the stairs. “You’re impossible.”

“Always, pet.”

She looked around the remains of the basement. “Remind me to call the plumber when we’re done?”

“I’ll call him while you eat.” He grinned at her neck pointedly. “Just had my brekkie.”

“Elly?”

“Yeah, luv?”

“Is my hair really bad?”

Spike tugged her to a halt on the stairs, his face very serious. “Buffy, you’re gorgeous.”

“Liar.”

“Don’t make me shag you on the bloody washing machine again.”

“We broke it.”

“Then I’ll go get us a new one this morning and  _then_  shag you on it. ‘Course,” he mused, “should prolly buy two, in that case.”

“This sounds expensive.”

“Guess you should just believe your husband when he tells you you’re beautiful then, yeah?”

Buffy grinned at him as she pushed the door open at the top of the stairs. “Hmm. But I haven’t decided if I want to get fucked on the washing machine again. Gotta give a girl some time to consider.”

“Impossible woman,” he grumbled, following her into the kitchen. “Now eat your damn brekkie.”

“Yes, lover.”


	17. Sunnydale-at-Large: Shades of Things to Come

Dawn had no more than gotten in the door after school when she nearly tripped over a pile of  _stuff_  littering the hallway. “What the holy heck?”

Mathilde peeked around the corner from the living room with her usual sharp gaze that always made Dawn feel super extra klutzy. Wait. The vampires were awake?

“Désolé, Dawn,” Mathilde said with a pinched expression, looking so very  _French_  that Dawn really wasn’t sure how to react (and she knew this look from her French teacher last year, Madame Kohl, who seemed to carry it whenever James Madsen said something  _so_  way wrong that he made the rest of the class look at him with a kind of embarrassed dismissal only eighth graders could really perfect). “The basement is flooded.”

Huh? “Flooded? Like, as in, there’s a bunch of water down there?”

“Oui.”

“Oh geez. Did Buffy call somebody?”

“Oui. They are making the repairs now, yes?”

“Cool.” She set down her backpack and wandered into the kitchen. Sure enough, there was the sound of several voices downstairs, one of which appeared to be Xander’s (Giles had picked her up from school). Guess this was the kind of emergency that warranted Xander services. She winced. Man, that meant it was probably a total disaster. She half wanted (okay, like mostly wanted) to peek down the stairs, but turned away after a moment. With her luck, she’d probably get wrangled into some dumb conversation with Xander and whatever plumber guys were there about a whole bunch of construction-y limbo that inevitably made her want to scream.

There was a loud thump above her head, followed by the distant sound of laughter and several softer thumps. She wrinkled her nose even as sudden elation whipped through her (warring immediately with grossness because  _gross_ ) and went back into the living room, hands on her hips as she looked at Mathilde and Albert. “Spike’s back, isn’t he?”

Albert chuckled lowly, reclining on the couch with clear amusement. “Oui.”

Dawn felt suspicion trickle through her. “He’s not the reason the basement is flooded, is he?”

The two vampires exchanged a look.

“No,” Albert said calmly, “is not Elly’s doing.”

“You guys totally just gave each other a look. I saw that.”

Mathilde laughed, a bright, tinkling sound. “The  _flood_  is not their fault,” she all but purred.

Dawn was suddenly uber glad she’d decided not to peek downstairs. “I  _so_  don’t even want to know.” And then shaking her head, she stomped back to the kitchen, dialing determinedly.

A lazy “Hullo?” greeted her after a few rings.

“Thomas? It’s Dawn.”

Thomas’s voice brightened immeasurably. “Miss Dawn! Ah, gimme a tick.” There was the sound of muffled conversation for a half minute (with the other voice definitely sounding of the female variety), then Thomas’s voice returned. “Pardon that. Still there?”

Dawn grinned. “Still here. Uh, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

She could practically hear his answering smile over the phone. It made her feel stupidly warm inside. “Nothing more important than my favorite cousin.” There was a slight pause. “Everything okay with Liz and Elly?”

“Ugh. Way too okay. I don’t think I can go upstairs for the rest of today, and I don’t even want to know what happened to the basement while I was gone.”

Thomas outright laughed at that. “Had a row, did they?”

“A row?”

“An argument, luv.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” She worried her bottom lip. “Spike left for a while.”

“Oh, I see now.” There was warm understanding in his voice. “Auntie and Uncle have been together longer than we’ve both been alive. He’ll always come back.”

“And you?” It came out bitchier than she intended, but then, she was worried. And it was pretty much a Summers trait that worried equaled bitchy.

“I’m coming back too, Miss Dawn.”

“You better.”

 

***

 

Boy, dancing sure had changed in sixty years, Lawson reflected as he stood on the sidelines at the Bronze, keeping a careful eye on his charges. Couldn’t say he much minded in the end, as he was still a man, but there was a certain grace and exhilaration to a good swing dance that this modern, almost-sex on the dance floor just didn’t quite replicate.

Still, it made the hunting that much easier.

He glanced to the side, where Claire was busy being felt up by her meal for the night. She was a young one, probably on the wrong side of eighteen, which would have made him uneasy once upon a time. Didn’t care anymore, which he knew was probably a lack of soul thing. Plenty of fellas never cared anyway, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t been one. Still, got under his skin a bit to see his recruit plastered against some nearly forty creep, her blonde hair swinging against the low of her back as she watched the man through dark fuck-me eyes. Finally, Lawson chuckled and turned away.  _You’re lucky we’re only the partial people-eating kind, you lizard._

Ferdy was by the bar, chatting up a couple of hot-shot college dropout Joes. Hadn’t taken Lawson more than a night to figure out the fledge was a punk down to his toes. Turned out that Ferdy’s one night stand had done him in. First thing he’d asked of Lawson was to find the numbskull and make him pay. It had been a good hunting lesson, and a good use of fledgling rage. Lawson knew all about that, after all. He’d used his own up swimming the Atlantic, reeling from the loss of God and country, and thinking even then about the sweet tang of torture for the man who’d made him that way.

He left Ferdy to his seduction and searched the floor for the newest addition, a middle-aged woman who looked more like a soccer mom than one who ate them. Diana Kinsey. She’d introduced herself that way, as if both names were equally important. Had a couple kids in middle school, and it was knowing she could watch them still that kept her from staking herself. She was drinking off in the corner, not much interested in eating until there was a fight. Was the vigilante type, and he admired that. For all his own stand up morals and ideals that had once been, he’d been a far worse monster than these three once vampirism took hold. Of course, if he’d had a commanding officer like General Liz upon his birth, well… that would’ve been a whole different ballpark.

Now he just tried to do right by her. And Spike, as odd as that was to reconcile with his memories of the Jerry-impersonating bastard that had once been. The pair checked up on him nearly nightly, sometimes at such a distance that the General’s presence was just a flicker. It would still make the fledges squirm in discomfort without any real understanding, which always made him laugh. The General’s power was something else. No grandstanding needed.

The other vamps – the frogs – would drop by irregularly. They didn’t trust him, and that was really fair and square in his book. A fella could never be too careful. But he hadn’t felt this good in sixty years; he wasn’t about to make a Charlie Foxtrot of the whole deal.

That thought in mind, he headed to the dance floor to get his own bit of supper. The ladies always swooned at a bit of swing. It was a novelty these days, after all.

 

***

 

“Whoa. What happened to her hair?” Andrew’s eyes were nearly bulging as he watched Buffy through the binoculars. Jonathan sighed, hoping Andrew wasn’t about to go off on another stupid Vampyr Slayer tale. When none seemed forthcoming, he turned back to his own viewing.

The Slayer and Spike were rather lazily meandering through an alleyway in their typical patrol route, unaware of the Trio watching them from a nearby roof.

They’d had her under surveillance for a month as they built the dampener, learning her every move, including that she liked chocolate ice cream, used Clariol for her shampoo, and spent way longer than they ever initially suspected around the demons of Sunnydale.

“Still the Slayer, isn’t she?” Warren said dismissively, glancing down at their target. “Couldn’t care if the bitch shaved her head and ran around bare ass naked.”

“One of the Slayers,” Andrew corrected primly. His eyes lit up at the thought of the other Slayer they’d found in their surveillance. “The mysterious Dark Slayer.”

Warren just rolled his eyes. “One of two,” he agreed. A smirk found his lips. “She’ll be the second one we capture.”

Jonathan felt unease run through him. Sure, the idea of running Sunnydale was awesome. He’d finally make all those assholes who picked on him in high school and made him feel like dying pay, but… he liked Buffy. “Warren, maybe we shouldn’t do this. I– I mean…” He nearly squeaked in panic as Warren rounded on him. “The vampire!” he managed. “That guy, Spike. Buffy’s always with him.”

Warren just snorted. “He’s a useless lump of undead. He’s so pussy whipped for her. That robot he wanted pretty much says it all. He’ll be dead before he even knows she’s landed a blow. Won’t suspect a thing.” He paused. “Although, it might be nice if she kept him under control for us. Pet vamp.”

Andrew's eyes were wide with uncertainty. “But then we'll have to invite the Vampyre into our lair. He could break our figurines!"

Warren paused. “Yeah. You’re right. Too much of a risk. Better just have her slay him.” He pinned a hard gaze on Jonathan. “You made it stronger?”

Jonathan squirmed uneasily. “Yeah, yeah. It’s stronger. Three times the normal.” He fingered the dampener in his pocket uneasily.

Apparently that had been an issue in future Warren’s time – he’d captured the Slayer a first time only to have her break his hold a minute later.

“Remember now,” Warren said lowly, “this is just a test run.” He grinned. “Having her kill the vampire should be a good start. Then she’ll be alone next time. Easy pickings.” He gave the wandering Slayer and Spike a last glance. “Everyone ready?”

“Ready,” Andrew said firmly.

Jonathan swallowed, screwing his eyes shut. Damnit. He could do this. “Ready,” he whispered.

“Then get into position, boys. We’ve got a Slayer to test.”


	18. Shades of Things to Come

She and Spike had just turned into the alley behind the pizza shop when a distressed cry filled the air.

“Help! Oh god, help!”

 _Ah, the serenade of a Hellmouth at night_ , Buffy thought wryly _._  She took off sprinting toward the sound, Spike a step behind at her side. They found some lanky college-age guy sprawled against a set of trashcans, clutching his side and breathing heavily. His eyes were wide with terror as they approached, mumbling incoherently in a pitch high enough to give Dawn a run for her money.

“Whoa, slow down a mo’, yeah?” Spike said, kneeling toward the guy. “Summat nasty get ahold of you?”

The kid just shrunk back further against the wall, to the pair’s bemusement. Spike frowned and glanced back at her. She saw him discretely touch his forehead to check for bumps. Buffy just shrugged.

“You’re not exactly innocent looking even without those, Elly,” she said with no small amusement.

Spike rolled his eyes, then predictably turned the motion into a leer, looking up at her from beneath hooded lashes. “Well, why don’t you give it a try, miss ex-pep squad?”

Buffy snorted. They’d passed three barely teenage cheerleaders earlier in the night, which had apparently reminded her husband that she used to wear that kind of thing way back when. And by ‘apparently,’ she meant that she’d had to hear him wax philosophical on the merits of short skirts and pom poms for the last hour. At this point, she was going to have to break out some of her old leather collars just to get him to shut up. (She’d found that those always worked to take his mind off pretty much anything.) “You are so getting in trouble for that remark later.”

“I bloody well hope so.”

Buffy approached the kid as her husband fell back and the teen squeaked brokenly; something about “big” and “down that way.” Buffy looked over at her husband. “You want to check it out? I’ll stay with this guy.”

“I'm on it, luv.” He was gone a moment later.

Buffy turned back to the kid, scanning him over. He didn’t look hurt, just scared.

“It’s not safe to be wandering back alleys at night, you know,” she said gently.

The guy gave her a strange, sort of giddy smile that seemed to be a reaction to shock. Then his gaze slid past her, to the left, and she instinctively followed it, looking over her shoulder. Two more young guys stood there, both dark haired, although one was smirking and the other looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Is this your friend?” Buffy asked, rising to her feet.

The uncomfortable guy just looked at her a bit sadly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to her, slamming a pair of sunglasses onto his face.

“What–”

Then there was a blinding flash of light and everything fell to black.

Buffy wasn’t sure when she swam back to semi-sentience. Everything was swaying – heavy and blind, like a garble of almost-nothing. It was as if someone had flipped a switch in her mind, except – instead of flooding the house with light – everything turned dark, and she was left to run from room to room trying to turn all the lights back on. And none of them would budge. She wanted to scream. She wanted to move. She wanted to blink. And none of it would happen. She wasn’t even sure what her body was doing (assuming that she still had one – she really wasn’t sure), and she had the terrifying sense that she was no longer in control.

After a bit more time passed, the sense of her physical self began to raggedly filter in, as if she was experiencing it all from deep underwater. Or while being heavily drugged. Her first bodily sensation was that of motion. She was breathing heavily, the action lifting her chest with deep exhalations.

“Pet? Buffy?” Spike’s voice swam through, tinged with rising panic. The sound of fighting followed, bright and almost deafening in the otherwise frightening silence.

 _Oh god. Elly!_  Something was attacking Spike. She had to break whatever the hell this was. And  _now_. Knowing Spike, he was probably trying to shield her in the alley as he wrestled whatever demon was on tonight’s Hellmouth Special menu.

She strained against her mind, expanding outward with every ounce of mental strength she owned, but she felt like a strapped-in mental patient. Jesus, what kind of magic had done this? It was worse than a thrall (which she wasn’t sure could even hold her these days. Spike didn’t seem to think so, but it wasn’t like they’d really tested it).

Spike’s voice came again, amidst more grunting blows, and she had a stronger sense of being in motion, followed by the weight of fist on flesh. Was she fighting?  _How_  was she fighting? She couldn’t even feel her body.

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to hurt you.” A pause. “Buffy! God, luv, please snap out of it!”

Huh? Cold dread filtered through her, even as sudden understanding hit like a herd of fyarl.

 _She_  was fighting Spike.

 _No._  All at once, she remembered straddling the other Spike, his face so swollen by her other self's fists that he could barely see.  _No. No. No._

She redoubled her efforts to break free. With excruciating slowness, bits and pieces of reality seemed to take form. Some of her sight appeared, blurry and only half there, as if she was viewing everything from deep fog. Unfortunately, her vision didn’t make anything better. In actuality, it made everything about ten times worse.

She had Spike backed up against a wall, and he was obviously simply trying to evade her. She, on the other hand, was trying to  _kill_ him. She couldn’t see it, but the feeling of wood grain was between her fingers.

Another wave of consciousness filtered in on that rush of horror, this time with a litanous internal voice she hadn’t even known existed.

_Kill Spike. Kill Spike. Kill Spike._

Buffy shuddered away from the voice that was hers but wasn’t.  _NO!_  she screamed at it, pounding against her mental prison.

Meanwhile, her body landed a solid blow against Spike’s nose, bloodying him. He dropped instinctively into game face, snarling, as he ducked another blow and attempted to knock her feet out from under her. “Buffy! Snap out of it!”

She trembled at the pain in his voice.  _I’m trying, Elly. Oh god, I’m trying._  Then,  _fuck, fuck, fuck._  Objectively, she and Spike were more than evenly matched these days, if for no other reason that they knew all of each other’s moves and capabilities, but her husband was obviously not fighting her with full ferocity.  _Damnit, Elly_ , she cursed, as her body managed to nick his shoulder with her stake, causing a damning rip in the leather of his duster.  _Just take me down!_

But she knew he wouldn’t. He’d dust before he did anything remotely close to killing her. Fear laid heavy and deep in the stomach she could barely feel. The mental adrenaline spurred her into even stronger action, and she concentrated on the frightening mental voice –  _Kill Spike. Kill Spike. Kill Spike_  – thrusting mental barbs against it again and again and again.

_Stop. Stop. Stop!_

Eventually, something seemed to break, and her body’s next kick fumbled. She felt herself crash heavily to the ground, the stake clattering away. But it wasn’t enough. Her body stumbled back to her feet, although the movement was indecisive. Spike took full advantage and sent her careening back to the ground, pinning her roughly under his body.

Amber eyes stared into hers with such despair that she knew her face must be empty. It certainly felt that way, like all of her emotion was shuttered inside, even though she was screaming.

“Buffy, come back. Come back to me,” her husband whispered almost despairing. Her body struggled against him, but he held her with painful force, blood from a cut above his brow dripping onto her cheek. She could feel the sensation, she realized; cold and wet. She used the feeling to fight even harder against the mental compulsion, gaining momentum as her body’s attacks seemed to falter.

“Buffy? Are you there?” Cautious hope was threading Spike’s voice as he watched her face. Thank god, something must’ve been happening on the outside. Still, her knee tried to come up against him. He chuckled at that, a dark sound, as he blocked it. “Gonna have to do better than that, luv.”

 _God damnit_ , she fumed internally, struggling against the horrid death song of her brain.  _Let. Me. GO!_

Without warning, the lights flicked back on and, all at once, Buffy was no longer trapped in her head. She was lying underneath her husband, dark cement against her back. She was dirty and aching and gasping for breath.

“Elly?”

Spike let out a kind of sharp cry and unpinned her, wrapping her instead in his arms with painful tightness. “ _Buffy!_ ” His vampire visage nuzzled against the pulse point of her throat, above his mark, his nostrils flaring with audible speed as he took in her scent.

She held him back just as fiercely, unable to speak, realizing after a moment that she was sobbing. “Something… something… happened,” she babbled almost incoherently. “Not me… not me…”

“Shhh, I know,” Spike murmured against her, his lips tight against her skin, rocking her gently on the ground. His hands were roaming her back, both soothing and seeking comfort. “I know. I know.”

It was a long time before they moved. Finally, Buffy lifted her head, her throat tight. “I really hate the Hellmouth,” she muttered, raising a hand to wipe the blood from his brow.

Spike laughed lowly at that. “Seems to have quite the knack for trying to set us apart, doesn’t it?”

She felt the remnants of panic tug at her. “It wanted me to kill you,” she whispered, staring at the blood on her fingers. “There was a voice. It wanted me to kill you.”

Her husband’s lips touched his bite mark on her neck reassuringly, sending a jolt through her. He took her hand then and lifted her fingers to his lips, gently sucking the blood away. He kissed her palm when he was done, with a small smile. “Good thing I‘m pretty bloody hard to kill then, yeah?”

Buffy felt the edges of her mouth quirk up despite herself. “Good thing.”

Spike sighed against her hair. “So what happened, luv? Came back to you and found the kid gone, and you trying to make a nice hole through my heart.”

Buffy’s smile faded. “Two guys showed up… then there was a flash of light and…” She paused, the dark-haired guy’s apologetic face stark in her mind.  _I’m sorry._ “Son of a bitch. It was a set-up.”

“Eh?”

“The kid we ‘rescued.’ It was him. Well them. There were three.”

Spike made a kind of strangled sound in his throat. “Three? All human wankers? Like the three in Willy’s a while back who apparently wanted to off you?”

Buffy’s stomach dropped. “Looks that way.”

“Buggering hell,” Spike growled. “As if a Hellmouth of sodding world-end happy demons isn’t enough, got to deal with bleedin’ evil  _humans_ , too. Always the worst, they are.” He held her tighter against him. Then he paused, brow furrowing. “If they wanted you dead, that was an awful funny way to go about it. Even if they didn’t rightly know us, think they’d figure I wouldn’t kill you, yeah?”

Buffy shrugged heavily, everything in her feeling bone weary. There were times when she actually felt every single one of her one hundred and forty one years. This was one of them. “I don’t know, Elly.”

Spike pursed his lips for a moment, then rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. “Right then. Better let the Watcher and gang know.”

“Would it matter if I said no?”

Spike raised a brow. “Why the bloody hell would you say no?”

Buffy sighed, slumping against her husband’s chest. “Because I’m thinking we should run away with a circus. Dawn’s always liked elephants. And it has to be less exciting than the Hellmouth.”

Spike chuckled. “Pet, any circus you find around these parts is like to be evil.”

“Point taken.” She attempted to lay a soft kiss on Spike’s mouth, although her plan was waylaid when Spike growled and pulled her against him with his full strength, capturing her mouth mercilessly, the fangs from his demon face biting into her lips. Neither of them cared. He finally released her when she could no longer breathe and gently licked the blood away. With a sigh, he slid back into his human guise, grasping her hand tightly. He bent to pick up her fallen stake with his free hand, but Buffy tugged him away with a shudder.

“Just leave it.”

“Buffy, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Leave it. Please.”

His eyes flashed amber. “I'm going to rip those tossers to shreds if I find them. Don’t rightly care what you say.”

Buffy held his gaze for a long moment and then glanced back at the stake lying on the cement, still wet with her husband’s blood. Rage flooded her chest. She’d given up everything to return to the Hellmouth after a hundred years. To fulfill her promise to her husband and herself and her family. To risk death and dismemberment and routine apocalypse. For what? To have some idiots try and take her meaning for life away? Her own free will?

 _I might just help you, Elly._  But she didn’t say it aloud. Didn’t trust that she wouldn’t just set off now and hunt the three men down and snap their necks. It wasn’t like they were nearly the first ones she’d have done it to. But this wasn’t war. And she was a Slayer on duty again, sworn to protect life, not take it. So she said nothing at all.

At her silence, Spike nodded once and set them into motion, steering them out of the alleyway with as much speed as their supernatural selves could manage.

 

***

 

“A mind control spell, you say?” Giles frowned deeply from his desk chair. “Begun from a flash of light… How very odd.”

“Doesn’t ring any bells then, Rupes?” Spike asked intently from the couch, where he had Buffy pulled onto his lap.

“No,” the Watcher muttered, rising to pull a few tomes from his bookshelf. “No, it sounds very peculiar indeed.”

Faith sat at attention in the armchair, arms on her thighs. She watched Buffy with a hawk’s gaze. “You okay, B?”

Buffy returned her look with a kind of unguarded anger she rarely let show. She knew her sister Slayer could take it. That she’d understand. “No. I’m not.”

Spike's arms tightened around her waist.

 

***

 

She made love to Spike gently that night, pressing him onto his back on their bed with a firm tenderness that made his entire face soften. Even after so many years and so much love, he still looked at her with a kind of awe that continually astounded her. “Buffy…”

She lightly bit his nipple and his attempt at speaking shifted to a groan. “Fuck, pet.” She bit the other one harder and he growled lowly. She trailed up his chest with slow kisses, laving the skin around the small stake wound in his shoulder with her tongue. He hissed at that, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Should tie me up again sometime soon,” he mumbled headily. “Get out the gag, yeah? Maybe one of the whips?” He paused. “You could wear the cheerleader get-up while you do it.”

Buffy giggled against his skin. “Oh god. If Dawnie ever sees any of that, she’ll pack up immediately and head for Chicago.”

Spike’s eyes blinked open. “What’s in Chicago?”

“My aunt Arlene.” She paused. “Um, I think. It’s been a long time.”

He chuckled. “Not so long. Just for us.”

“Right.” Buffy sighed, lazily twining a hand down to his cock. “Seems like it today.”

Spike murmured agreement, shifting his hips to encourage her hand to tighten. “Can feel all those years at the mo’.”

She squeezed his cock, stroking down his length. “That’s a compliment, I hope.”

“Only the highest,” he rasped, his eyes rolling back as she fondled his balls. “God, Buffy.”

“You’d think I rarely touched you, Elly.”

He snorted. “What I  _think_  is that you have bloody hot hands, luv. That's not changed in a century. Will never get used to it.”

She slipped down his chest with a knowing smirk. “No? How about other hot places?” And not waiting for a reply, she captured his cock in her mouth, listening to him gasp in pleasure, sucking him until he cried out and spilled down her throat.

They sank into sleep shortly after, Buffy wrapped in Spike’s arms with iron tightness.

She wasn’t sure when she started to dream. Between one moment and the next, she found herself under a breezy white tent, the coolness of a spring evening tickling her skin as the Bellamy Brother’s new hit  _Let Your Love Flow_ rambled through the record player speakers and all the dancers swayed along to it. Spike had her glued against him and was cracking dirty jokes about Watchers and tweed, himself dressed in a simple button down and slacks.

“Think they unstuff their shirts to take their pricks out?” he murmured in her ear.

Buffy laughed against him, shaking her head as she spied Ellen getting twirled by Martin in the middle of the floor, her white gown flowing around her. “God, Elly, you’re horrible.” She paused, smiling at the newlyweds. “And Martin doesn’t seem so uptight.”

“That’s because he’s a half bottle of scotch in, pet. Give him two days, then it’s all 'by jove, my papers are wrinkled’ and ‘good lord, is that a mismatched sock?!’”

Buffy rolled her eyes, looking around the scene with interest, listening to the merriment of the wedding goers in the golden tent lights. “What are we doing here, anyway? This was a long time ago.”

Spike arched a brow. “Not so long. And history often repeats itself, you know.”

“Martin’s still alive. Don’t think Ellen is getting remarried anytime soon.”

“It’s a special kind of marriage, innit?” Spike said softly, looking around with her. “All these blokes. And only one girl.”

Buffy frowned. “One girl?”

But then, before she could hear her husband’s reply, she was suddenly standing in a dark house, holding a cross against a man’s – no, a vampire’s – pelvis, his amber eyes nearly rolled up in satisfaction as the instrument seared and smoked his skin.

“Oh yes. Just like that. Just a little lower.”

She tried to jerk her arm away as he brought it down to his crotch, but he wouldn’t have it. What was wrong with her arm? Why was she so weak? A horrible fluttering of memory overtook her. She was in the abandoned house during her Cruciamentum. Oh god.

“Why?” she whispered.

The vampire’s eyes snapped open. Kralik’s eyes, she remembered. She’d forgotten how tall he was, and broad-shouldered like an ox. He dwarfed her.

“Can’t ever escape, you know,” he said merrily, with a fangy grin, holding her hand fast against him. “Not how the game is played.”

She growled at him. “I’m not that girl. Not been her in a century. You don’t frighten me.”

He just laughed, low and deep and long. “You’re still the One, little girl. Helpless, hopeless, hapless,” he sing-songed. “And all they see is creatures like me.” He rubbed her hand against the smoking bulge in his pants. “And you, married to me! Perverse, Slayer. That’s perverse. Think I’ll eat you right up.”

Then he released her arm with a jerk and she stumbled back. When she lifted her head, the moldering house was gone, and she was in Bermuda, sitting at a very familiar café with Spike. His ring glinted on his finger.

“Took your time, Slayer,” he said, sipping his tea. “They’re almost here.”

Buffy swallowed, looking around at the scene, at the café goers, with their long dresses and pressed suits. “Who’s here?”

As if in answer to her question, a young, somewhat rumpled man in tweed stumbled up to them. “Pardon me! But I’ve been looking for you,” he said with clear relief, gazing directly at Buffy.

Buffy leaned away, unease filtering through her. “No,” she said sharply. “This isn’t right. You don’t know who I am. You’re supposed to be dim, and Spike and I will run.”

The Watcher blinked at her. “Now don’t be silly. Where can you possibly run to? I’m already here.”

“Already here,” Spike agreed amiably, taking another sip of tea.

Buffy jerked awake.

Heart racing, she pulled herself to a sitting position in bed and glanced around the darkened room at Revello Drive. Spike shifted at her side, his cool hands lightly touching her waist.

“Buffy? Everything alright?”

She looked down at her husband’s bemused, sleep-riddled face, terrible certainty filling her. “They’re coming, Elly. The Council is coming to Sunnydale.”


	19. Sunnydale-at-Large: Giving Shadow Substance

Faith found herself in Giles’s living room without really knowing how she got there, staring at the Watcher in question as he peered out from his open front door. He was decked out in a full tweed suit, even stuffier than his usual crap, and looked incredibly nervous.

“Something up, Watcher man?”

He turned to her expectantly, a sudden creepy eagerness lighting his eyes. “Waiting for company to arrive, Faith. Won’t you set the table?”

“Uh… sure.” Not her usual gig, but he was basically letting her freeload, so, hey, she could give him this one. “Just don’t expect the servant business to keep up,” she added, for good measure, heading into the kitchen.

Giles just cocked his head at her in a movement reminiscent of Spike. Predatory. Man, he was acting weird. “But that’s what you are, Faith. Just a servant.”

She stopped dead in her tracks. “Like hell I am.” Pivoting, she went to face her shithead of a Watcher… and found herself staring at her first Watcher instead, bound in the shadows of an old warehouse. A warehouse she’d fled over three years ago.

“Paige?” Her voice trembled despite herself.

Paige smiled wanly at her from her spread-eagle restraints – dirty lines of nylon rope marred with blood and grime and what was assuredly piss. Her Watcher’s face was bruised and bloodied, with a myriad of fang marks tracking down her neck. Her short blonde hair was matted with blood, small dots of it falling onto the already-stained concrete. “Faith. You came.”

“You’re dead,” Faith whispered, backing slowly away. “He killed you.”

“I know,” Paige said calmly. “You watched him, remember?” A low, rattling laugh slipped from her, causing blood to rain down like a shower onto the floor. It spattered in the shape of a cross. “Except that’s not your job, is it? That’s mine. I’m watching you, Faith.”

“You’re dead,” Faith repeated, angrily this time. What the hell was this?

“You can’t escape it. There’s no use running,” Paige whispered. “We see what you’ve done.”

The shiver of an approaching vampire shuddered up her neck.

Faith woke in a cold sweat.

 

***

 

Spike found his wife cross-legged on the floor in their bedroom, their small mahogany war chest open and its contents spilled around her. Oh hell. He set down the two mugs of tea he carried, sliding them onto the side table with a whisper light touch.

“Buffy?”

She acknowledged him with a short smile, her eyes barely lifting from the paper she was perusing. He didn’t have to ask what it was. He’d put it in the box himself, sixty years ago. It was a rebel newspaper printed during the liberation of Paris, calling on all of the citizens to revolt as US troops marched toward the city. Was the kind of thing some doddering historian would probably give his eyeteeth for.

“Isn’t it funny,” she murmured. “It’s always called D-Day now, as if the whole thing was just done in a day. Over. Poof.” She looked up at him fully, her green eyes dark with memory. “Those were the bloodiest weeks, the revolt. I think I killed more Germans then than I did in all the rest of the years. Do you remember the packs of them camping out in the streets? So much rubble by that time that you could barely turn around without hitting a pile of it. They thought it was safe by those bombing leftovers.” She chuckled darkly. “They never suspected us in the night.”

Spike swallowed heavily and slid down next to her on the floor, cool thighs touching her warm ones. She hadn’t dressed yet and was decked only in a light robe, the front nearly all open, just barely hiding her tits.

“I remember, luv.”

He glanced at the paper. Even now, there was a small dot of blood on the edge of it, so small and faded with age he doubted she could even see it. It was his fault, that drop. He’d been carrying a dead boy out of the street, out of sight, before a rendezvous (she’d gotten held back for a minute giving orders to the rest). He hadn’t wanted her to see. Finding children like that always got to her in a way nothing else did – he suspected it was too close to thinking of Dawn and all of their other Bits. So he’d lifted the mangled little form in his arms without a moment’s pause, determined to dump it around the corner before she arrived.

He’d had to fight off the demon the whole way, in a gruesome battle of will that left him frustrated and furious. He hadn’t eaten much the few days before, too concerned with keeping Buffy afloat. And the boy’s blood had just been there, dripping through his fingers, leaching uselessly from the limp body. Imagining it was one of his Bits was the only thing that worked to stave off his fangs, but only barely. And, even then, he’d had to drop the body and run at the end.

He wouldn’t have cared a whit about eating the boy. The kid was dead. But the last thing in the world he was going to do was tell Buffy that he’d done anything like that.

Therefore he didn’t. He’d licked his hands clean though (no point in wasting what was already going to need wiped away), and saw the paper on the way back, desperately flung out for distribution. He’d grabbed it as a distraction, that paper. Something to do with his hands that wasn’t holding a dead boy he desperately wanted to go back and eat.

And now it sat in their bedroom sixty years later, in his wife’s hands.

“Glory wouldn’t have nearly succeeded if not for Ben,” she said almost distantly. “The Initiative wouldn’t have even existed without people. The War… well, that was  _all_  humans.”

“Buffy?”

She looked up at him suddenly, fingers clenching the paper. “Do you know how many teenage boys I’ve killed, Elly?”

He searched her face, the hard mask of a woman forged in war. She wasn’t giving anything away to him this morning. Christ, that dream must have really done a number on her, especially coming right on top of whatever the fuck had been done to her – to them – in the alley. He cleared his throat softly. “Figure I could suss it out. Was there, after all.” He paused, eyes darting to the paper. “Was eating them, after all.”

She considered that for a moment. “I don’t know where the line is,” she said finally. “I thought it was war, for a long time. I’ve tried to convince myself that part is over for me – the killing. But I don’t think that’s right.” Something amused crossed her expression, so lacking in real humor that he stayed stiff as a board. “The  _hellmouth_ … I never really thought about it before, when I was here. What that means. It was always a thing leaching into the town. This thing I had to stop, to save all the good ignorant people of Sunnydale from knowing what a poor choice in living space they’d picked.”

She was away in her own head now, looking back at the spilled contents of the box. He eyed her form critically, looking for the shakes and shudders that told him to break her out of her reverie, to pull her away and drown her in his touches, as he’d done a hundred times before. She was still, her heartbeat even. He waited.

She looked back up. “Now I think it’s hell on both sides. The mouth is just a doorway, taking you to one room or the other. Doesn’t really matter which one you’re in.”

He frowned at that, at the flatness of her tone. “The world’s not all bad, Buffy.”

She snorted, expression lightening briefly. “Oh, I know that. Wouldn’t bother with being the Slayer anymore if it was.” She glanced down at her wedding band, twirling it with her thumb and index finger. “Sometimes don’t think I should bother now, anyway. Should leave Faith here to take care of it. She’d be fine…” Her voice trailed off, and they sat in silence for a long moment.

He wasn’t going to suggest they stay or go. Wouldn’t ever. He’d only made her come back because she’d have never forgiven herself otherwise. He wondered about the other them who hadn’t come, in some different dimension. Was that Buffy’s Spike constantly battling her guilt? Or had something else happened to that pair, something that made them care less about what they’d left behind?

Spike watched his wife, saw the slight tightening around her eyes that signaled a decision in her thoughts. All told, he expected her to say that they should pack up the Bit and hop on the next plane. And he’d do just that. Sell the sodding house and spend the next twenty years worshipping Buffy’s battered soul on a beach while fucking all the wild hurt from her heart that this place had managed to both cause and recall.

But she didn’t say it. Instead, her eyes flared more deeply, hard as emeralds. Unyielding. “I’m pissed, Elly! I’ve taken down a freaking company’s worth of Nazis. I’ve survived a hundred years with you. I’ve found a way to give demons and humans a chance at co-existing here.” She growled lowly, and the sound went straight to his prick. “Who the _fuck_ do those three little snotnose shitheads think they are!”

Oh Christ. She  _was_  mad. It was a rare day when Buffy was furious enough to swear like a sailor. And fuck if it didn't make him he want to pin her down and shag her senseless.

She looked sharply at him when he didn’t reply. “Aren’t you? Angry, I mean.” Her expression faltered as she took in his rigidly still form. “You look calm.”

He chuckled darkly. “Oh, Buffy. You know me better than that.”

Her face cleared. “I do. So why are you holding it back?”

He held her gaze solemnly. “Because if I let out what I was feeling right now, I’d start ripping apart every bloke, bird, and anklebiter in this bloody town until I found our three bastards. Then I’d find a way to make them learn the word for pain in every language I know.” He twitched, his demon nearly roaring with pleasure at the thought. “And probably several I don’t.”

Buffy stared at him for a long moment, then very pointedly shoved the war box away. “What do you think the Council wants?”

He blinked at the rapid change in subject. “Ah… dunno, luv. Going to see Rupert in a bit, aren’t we? See if he’s heard summat?”

“We are.”

When she said nothing else, he raised a brow. “That all?”

She shrugged. “It’s just stupid. We have three teenagers trying to…  _somethin_ g me. Trying to destroy  _us_ , at minimum. And now my dreams are trying to tell me that the Council is coming, trying to destroy everything else. Everything we’re building. And I’m pissed.”

He nodded, rising briefly to retrieve their tea. When he was safely repositioned on the floor, both of them silently sipping their drinks, he let himself laugh, lowly and merrily.

Buffy looked up from her mug with curious amusement. “Something funny, William?”

“Just thinking, pet.”

“Oh? About what?”

“The war. That kind of hell. All those bloody hard years.”

She gave him a baffled look. “Yeah? So what’s funny?”

He grinned, fangs dropping low. “What’s funny, luv, is that we won.”

 

***

 

“A Slayer dream? You’re quite certain?”

Buffy gave Giles a hard look, the kind he quite liked to forget she owned when it was pointed at him. It made him feel uneasily like something she was about to stake. They were all gathered at the Magic Box – well, excepting most of the vampires, as it was midday. Buffy gave a sort of resigned shrug from her place on Spike’s lap. “It’s not like you forget that feeling.”

Giles felt his brows raise almost impossibly high. “Forget? Are you implying that you haven’t had one in a while?”

“Only if by ‘a while’ you mean a hundred and twenty years.”

He could do nothing but stare at her for that remark. “Good lord.”

Buffy shrugged. “I was on vacation. Pretty sure the PTB knew I wasn’t having any of their garbage.”

“Not to mention you threatened to kill them at least once a year,” Spike added with a grin. “Think that might’ve gotten through.”

“Good lord,” he repeated, finding to his great irritation that all other expressions seemed to have fled.

“Now you’ve done it,” Faith said with a smirk. “He’s slipped in British broken record mode.” She shrugged. “And I had the same deal-io, Giles. Gotta tell you, dream-you was on some serious drugs.”

He blinked between his two Slayers. Both with prophetic dreams about the Council? Something ill-fated was assuredly afoot. The idea settled into his chest with great unease. “Ah, yes,” he managed. “I do still possess a contact or two that might be persuaded to look into this… discreetly.”

Xander frowned from his terribly postured positioning at the table. Good lord, it was almost as if the boy had no spine at all. “But why would the Council be coming? There’s no hell-godliness here anymore and two Slayers.”

“I rather suspect that two Slayers might in fact be the cause,” Giles admitted with a sigh, wincing as he recalled the great number of phone calls over the past several months. Each of which had required a solid finger or two of scotch after the fact. “Quentin has made it quite clear how little the Council trusts my… abilities to handle even one Slayer, not to mention two.” He glanced at both Slayers ruefully. “Not that I am implying I am even attempting to, ah, ‘handle’ either of you.”

Faith smirked at that. “Didn’t think you were.”

He exhaled an exasperated breath. “Yes, well. I will find out what I can about the Council. In the meantime, we have three imbecilic ruffians who are running roughshod about town.”

Xander snickered. “Can you repeat that, G-man? Maybe say it five times fast? Ruffians running roughshod…” The boy paused. “What’s that even mean?”

Oh, for God’s sake.

Anya sighed dramatically. “It’s a shame I don’t have my powers. I bet at least one of them has a woman in desperate need of vengeance.”

“Quite,” Giles murmured, finding himself for once in perfect agreement with the ex-demon. He looked over at Buffy and Spike again. “And you didn’t recognize them at all?”

Buffy gave a helpless shrug. “Sorry. I mean… it’s possible I did know them – or one of them – once, but…”

“It’s been a bloody century,” Spike finished for her.

“Indeed.” Giles took off his glasses. The blasted things were dirty already. “Well, let us hope we find them quickly. Before they can do any additional damage.”

Tara sat up slowly. “If you do see them again, s-see if you can’t grab a bit of their clothing? I could do a locating spell.”

Spike gave a low, beastly growl. “Glinda, if I see those tossers again, they’re as good as dead.”

Giles felt himself reel back at the blatant threat to human life. Not that the twats didn’t deserve it and not that he wouldn’t turn a blind eye should he come across such a thing... But it seemed rather… out in the open. Buffy appeared unperturbed. When she noticed him looking, she shrugged. “I’ve decided I’m pissed.”

“Oh? And what does that mean, my dear?”

“It means I’ve decided we’re enacting war rules around here.”

Faith gave her sister Slayer an unreadable look. “You playing General or Tueuse, B?” He didn’t think it was a mistake that she’d chosen the French vampires’ word for Slayer.  _Killer._

Buffy smiled slightly, humorlessly. “Both.” 

 

***

 

“Damnit! We have to make it stronger!” Warren flung the dampener against the basement wall, effectively shattering it into about a dozen pieces.

Well, that was a waste. Jonathan sighed and went to grab a broom.

“Maybe we need a different spell,” Andrew said brightly, from where he was happily perusing stilled images of Buffy and Spike fighting in the alley.

Warren gave him a dirty look. “No, moron. We don’t need a different spell. That’s the only spell that works the way I–we need. It just has to be stronger next time.” He started to pace violently. “I don’t understand. She shouldn’t have been able to break that for hours. Hours!”

Jonathan paused from where he’d started to scoop up the remains of the dampener. “Maybe it just doesn’t work well on Slayers?”

Warren paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, it does. It worked in the future.” He scowled. “Worked way better there.”

“Maybe that Buffy was like… under the influence of something else, too,” Andrew suggested. He paused. “Or something.”

Warren made to obviously snap at that then stopped himself abruptly. Jonathan could almost see the wheels turning in his head. A slow, dark grin spread across Warren’s face as he wandered over to Andrew and slid a friendly arm over the other man’s shoulders. “You know, I think you might just be right.” He chuckled, and the sound made the hairs on the back of Jonathan’s neck stand on end. “You might just be right.”

 

*** 

 

Mr. Isaac Bowen very stoically exited his taxi, grimacing at his stiffened limbs. He was barely pushing fifty, but after nearly fourteen hours of travel and incredibly subpar airport dining options, he currently felt more like his grandfather Louis. At least the old codger was still above ground, for all that meant.

He sighed and looked around the town he’d arrived in. Sunnydale, California. How… quaint. For a mouth of hell.

He’d been quite happy without a Potential appointment for the past several decades, but Quentin had insisted. The Potential here would need his skills, he was told. And he was of strong enough mind to deal with the two Slayers already in residence, both of whom had quite the colored history of willfulness and an astounding lack of recorded propriety. And one of whom had even been slated for elimination in a time not that long past.

Yes, Quentin had declared, the presence of Isaac Bowen was incredibly warranted. Imperative, even.

After all, what better place for a veteran of the Council Special Operations team than where all of their assets lie, just begging for proper operation?


	20. Sunnydale-at-Large: Holidays on the Hellmouth (Part 1)

Dawn had really been looking forward to Halloween. It was probably kind of morbid and silly, considering the total Halloween-ness of her everyday life (like, geez, she lived with three vampires), but Janice had been on a sugar high about it for weeks, and they had gone out and gotten costumes together and everything. Inevitably, Buffy, Spike, and Xander had been pretty vehement about checking them over for curses. Her sister and Spike also made her swear to run away from any groups of three college-age guys.

Dawn narrowed her eyes at that. “Are we talking guys alone or do big groups count? Should I be like extra scared of groups with multiples of three?”

Spike gave her a hard look. “This is serious, Bit.”

“Very,” Buffy added softly, her face sheened with a kind of tension Dawn was sure hadn’t been there last week.

God, could they  _be_ more overprotective? After a hell god, three human guys seemed like a weird thing to be so paranoid about. Still, Dawn felt a twinge of anxiety run through her. Whatever weird magic they’d done had managed to turn Buffy all killer robot. In the bad way. At least the Buffybot had  _liked_  Spike. She bit her lip.

“Okay, geez. I promise I’ll be careful.”

Her sister’s look of relief only made her anxiety crank up another notch.

On the bright side, Dawn had managed to convince Ant to come along for the night. Ant was actually Antonio, one of the Sunnydale Ano-movics she’d met when Thomas took her along to a visit. He was sixteen, funny, and had looked at her with a kind of incredible awe after learning she was an ancient mystical key. All of last year, that knowledge had been part of some stupid nightmare, where she was both something to be afraid of and coddled at the same time. Girl with the worst of both worlds, that was her. Seriously, if Buffy hadn’t considered putting her in a plastic bubble for her own protection at one point or another, Dawn would give up anchovies (okay, not really, because  _anchovies_ , but still).

Nowadays, she was sort of beginning to understand that her keyness gave her status in the supernatural community. She was something a  _god_  had wanted. She was valuable and possibly still powerful. That was like…  _cool_. So, she totally used it to impress. And Ant was suitably impressed, which meant she invited him to the Halloween festivities. She’d also managed to wheedle and beg and coerce the young demon until he dressed up like Antonio Banderas’s Zorro (with the promise not to laugh or take pictures –  _hah_ , he was totally going to give in on the photo front before the night was out). Unlike Thomas, who was more human than demon, Ant was pretty much a pureblood demon, and had the red skin and crazy reptilian brow ridges to prove it. So technically he was going as Lizard Zorro.

Dawn had decided to go with a more classic costume: she was going to be Dracula. Or Dawn-cula, to be exact. Because, oh god, was it way fun to say. And not only had Spike been rendered speechless with anger by her choice, but all the other vampires had pretty much looked at her with shocked disbelief as she lisped in terrible Eurovamp-ese with her plastic fangs. Buffy had just giggled at Spike’s apoplexy and whispered with grinning reassurance that, “She doesn’t look a thing like him.”

Oh, yeah. It was going to be awesome.

And then, of course, her thoughts just had to jinx the whole thing, because Janice’s ‘friends’ that she’d brought along to hang out were totally real vamps. Ugh. Stupid Hellmouth.

To her great embarrassment, Dawn didn’t even figure it out right away. Luckily, Ant did. His eyes had widened almost dangerously under his black sombrero as they met up, and he’d lowered his lips to her ear, breath touching her skin in a way that made her shiver pleasantly.

“Uh, Dawn, those guys are vampires.”

Crap. So Dawn just sighed and turned to the others with a blinding smile (Buffy wasn’t the only one who knew how to play dumb). “Hey, can we stop by my house? We can get my sister to give us some fun money.”

The one guy – Zach – grinned. “Awesome, yeah. Let’s do it!”

Justin – the other vamp guy – just shrugged. “Hadn’t planned on paying for anything tonight, anyway.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. Stupid vampires. Turning on her heel, she trudged back to Revello Drive with the vampire boys and Ant and Janice in tow. She knocked on the door, even though she knew Buffy and Spike were already out patrolling (read: doing the nasty in the cemetery, because,  _hello_ , it was Halloween, and all the actual baddies were staying in).

Albert answered the door eventually, surprise registering across his face. “Dawn? There is something you are needing?”

Dawn sighed and glanced back at the group behind her. “Guess,” she said lowly.

Albert’s gaze sharpened as he looked back at the teenage crew. He raised a brow, a chill smile appearing on his lips that seemed to immediately make the vamp boys uneasy. “Ah. I see.” His eyes flashed amber as he stared at them. “You. Come here.” His voice was like whiplash, all French vibrancy and vampiric command. The two boys seemed unable (or unwilling) to disobey, and they stumbled toward the porch. Huh. Cool.

At Albert’s nod, Dawn very quickly rambled at Janice that Albert was a relative they needed to catch up with and practically shoved her friend down the street. Ant followed at a careful distance.

It was all pretty tame after that. The trio ended up with way too much candy, a broken set of fangs, and all of them tipsy from stealing some of Janice’s mom’s vodka. By the end of the night, Dawn was feeling light-footed, kind of woozy, and really brave. She may or may not have kissed Ant when all was said and done, and he’d blushed adorably, his red skin turning even darker. He walked her home afterward, when Janice had been a little too sossed to care about making sure her friend got back to Revello safely. Ant left her a couple houses down, halting suddenly. “Your dad is waiting for you on the porch.”

Dawn felt her heart freeze. “Dad?”

“Well, not actually, I’m guessing. Because vamp. But, yeah.”

Her chest started back to life. “Oh. You mean Spike.” She gave him what she hoped was a flirty smile. “Uhm, I’ll see you later then?”

He twirled his gigantic sombrero with obviously tipsy fingers, nearly spilling it to the ground in a way that made her giggle. “Absolutely.”

Dawn was still grinning when she reached her house, noting the remains of two small piles of dust scattered there. Spike was standing in the open front door with a raised brow. As she tromped up the porch stairs, his nostrils flared.

“You’ve been drinking, Bit.”

Uh oh. Dawn winced and looked up at the blond vampire hopefully. “It was only a little? And, c’mon, like you never let any of the Delancey kids drink?” She paused, hands on her hips. “And I was responsible! I brought the stupid fledges here for you guys to take care of.”

Spike gave her a long, hard look. Eventually, he sighed and held the door open wider. “Brush your damn teeth and get to bed.”

Dawn squealed and ran in the house. “You’re the best!”

“Don’t bloody mention it,” she heard him mutter as she flew up the stairs. “Especially to Buffy.”

 

***

 

Buffy rubbed a weary hand on her temples. The source of her and Faith’s dreams had shown up in Sunnydale not a day after the fact (and only several hours after Giles made certain phone calls that he was waiting to be returned), knocking imperatively on the Watcher’s door as he and Faith sat down for dinner. Turned out Mr. Isaac Bowen was an ex-wetworks guy, which just brought a cloud of warm fuzzies to the forefront. Still, Giles’s contacts had assured him that Mr. Bowen was a respectable man with a clean record. Faith had snorted at that remark.

“So, not like the slimeballs who tried to haul me out?”

Buffy raised a brow at Giles in agreement. It was all a little blurry nowadays, lost under the ravages of time, but her memories of the wetworks team weren’t kind.

Giles sighed and slumped into his chair. “Not all of the Council’s Special Operations are of that nature. Many are quite politically motivated, to ensure the Council has a wide-range of international, ah, freedom. I believe our Mr. Bowen is of that category.”

Buffy felt a grim smile pull at her. “Politics aren’t necessarily less dangerous, Giles.”

The Watcher nodded wearily. “Indeed.” He regarded his glass of scotch thoughtfully. “A Potential in Sunnydale… with two Slayers already in residence. I quite wonder why I bother being surprised at anything these days.”

Faith laughed. “Eh, gotta keep some fun in life, Watcher-man.”

Giles downed the last of his scotch with a wry smile. “I do believe you keep me rather topped off on my quota of ‘fun’, Faith.”

Faith turned to Buffy with a wicked grin. “Isn’t he just the sweetest?”

 

***

 

Amanda was (supposedly) potentially destined to kill vampires and other creepy things of the night. And that was like…  _whoa_. Here she’d just been minding her own business in the good old weird town of Sunnydale, when a British guy with a bushy gray mustache and these huge bull shoulders knocked on her family’s door. She’d pretty much thought he was crazy (what else was she supposed to think with his cockamamie story and him telling her he wanted to take her to a  _cemetery_? Major predator alert).

She’d slammed the door in his face.

Really, it was a darn good thing – for him – that her parents had been out running errands, or he’d have found his weird self in jail.

Still, Mr. British Potentially Psycho had come back a couple days later with a petite blonde woman and a busty brunette woman in tow. They kind of looked like very serious Barbies. And while Mr. British seemed to think he was in charge, all it took was one hard look from the blonde woman to make him step backward. The blonde’s face flashed with something that looked like ‘damn right’ and then she turned to Amanda with a surprisingly gentle smile.

“Hey.”

Amanda frowned at her suspiciously. “Are you with him?”

The brunette snorted laughter. “Only in the sense that we’re with him.”

“I’m Buffy,” said the blonde. Her green eyes lightened mirthfully. “I’m guessing Mr. Bowen here has told you a bunch of stuff that sounds insane?”

“Try super Stephen King worthy.” Amanda glared at the man in question. “Although, not as well-written.”

Buffy’s mouth quirked up into a smile. “It’s a weird world.”

The brunette looked incredibly amused. “King’s all kinds of screwed up. Give me a good dead demon any day.”

Confusion and anxiety filtered through her. “Who are you guys?”

Buffy held her hands open wide. “Faith and I are Slayers. The same thing you might be someday.”

Great. This again.

“Okay, next thing you know, you’ll be telling me I need to go to the cemetery with you. Like one stalking predator guy wasn’t enough?”

The brunette – Faith – laughed outright now, some kind of dark, free sound. “Hot damn, I like this one. She’s got spunk.”

“I think it’s a requirement,” Buffy said dryly. She shrugged. “Look. You don’t have to come anywhere with us. Ever. But it won’t change what you are. And you might just learn some cool things."

Faith jerked a thumb back at the British guy, who was watching the scene with a pursed and somewhat curious expression. “And we’ve got stuff to do. So if you wait to come and see what the fuss is about, you’re going to be stuck with the tightwad.”

The British man scowled at that, which pretty much made up Amanda’s mind. She swung open the door a bit wider. “Okay. But I’ve got pepper spray. So no funny business.”

 

***

 

Jonathan fiddled with the casing for the new cerebral dampener, his sweating palms making the screwdriver slip and jamb against his thumb. He gasped slightly and set the tool down with a deep breath. His hands were shaking. Damn. Damn. Damn.

He didn’t want to do this. It wasn’t right.

His eyes found the back of Warren’s head, where the other man was watching the footage of Buffy beating up Spike, over and over again. This had gone way past their comic book dreams of being the ultimate rulers of Sunnydale. In fact, he wasn’t even sure it had anything to do with that at all anymore.

Warren was obsessed.

“Bitch is gonna pay,” he’d been muttering randomly, mixed in with “Thinks she’s too good for this game? I’ll show her” and “If you think making me lose my girlfriend was a laugh, you slut, just wait until I make you lose everything.”

Jonathan swallowed hard and stared at the small metal globe in his hand. Whatever his humiliations from the assholes of Sunnydale (and there were plenty), they weren’t worth whatever was going on in Warren’s head.

It had seemed like a game, at first. Be the villains, take the money, have all the girls. The villains always had all the fun. It was easy. It was exhilarating. It was liberating.

But this… this was sick.

Without warning, Warren swiveled in his chair and Jonathan jumped. “Uh, hey.”

“When are the new musk glands getting here?”

“Um,” Jonathan swallowed down the squeak in his voice. “It’ll be another couple weeks. B-back order.”

Warren gave a small sound of disgust and turned back around without another word.

Jonathan closed his eyes in a long, relieved blink. Making sure Warren was again preoccupied, he opened his desk drawer and pushed the musk glands farther into the bottom. All he needed was time. He could figure out how to get their group back to… normal. Well, back to doing something that wasn’t destroying Buffy’s life. Was he the only one who saw how devastated she was, sobbing in the vampire’s arms? Well, Andrew did, but he just sighed happily, like it was some great tragic romance they were watching unfold. And, right now, it was.

Because they were the villains.

Jonathan turned back to the dampener casing.

 

***

 

“Just keep your fledges under the radar.”

Buffy’s voice was quiet, but steely, and Lawson felt himself almost instinctually easing under it. It was the voice of command.

“You got it, General.” He paused, watching the tightness around her eyes ease slightly. “Not to sound insolent, but why’re you cow-toeing to him? It’s obvious this Bowen fellow thinks he’s a big time operator, but what you’ve got is a hangar warrior, through and through.”

Buffy raised a brow, turning to Spike beside her. “Is this what I used to sound like to you?”

Spike smirked. “You were worse.”

“Ha ha.” Buffy shrugged, turning back to give Lawson a solemn look. Some kind of memory seemed to float over her face, followed by a flicker of amusement. “We’re not  _cow-toeing_. It’s just... the less the Council knows about what’s actually going on here, the better. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

***

 

“I mean it, Xander, I want fuchsia.”

“Ahn, I’m not asking a centennial vampire to wear a fuchsia necktie. He’ll kill me.” Xander dragged an exhausted hand down his face and looked at the clock in their living room. It was almost one a.m. “Can’t we finish this tomorrow?”

Anya’s eyes flashed up from the mound of bridal magazines she was perusing. “No, we cannot. We’re doing this  _now_.” She threw up her hands in obvious exasperation. “Colors are important. This day is important. It has to be perfect!”

Xander sighed and stood, tugging his fiancée away from the table and pulling her pouting self onto the couch beside him. “Okay. Different idea: how about you just pick things and I’ll be your silent helper?”

Anya’s eyes narrowed. “But you said…”

“If Spike kills me, it’ll just be your fault.”

Anya beamed at him. “You’re going to be a perfect husband.”

“Only if I’m not not dead, Ahn.”

Anya shrugged and leaned into him with a happy sigh. “I’m sure Spike won’t kill you. Maim you, maybe, but not kill." She kissed him soundly. "And I'll be very upset if he does. You need to be handsome and whole for the wedding."

“I feel so much better already.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cow-toe = kowtow :)


	21. Sunnydale-at-Large: Holidays on the Hellmouth (Part 2)

Diana Kinsey had always loved the holidays. She loved the heavily iced sugar cookies that left a trail of sticky sweet all over her chin, which her husband was nice enough to lick up, peppering exaggerated kisses over her face that left her gasping with laughter. She loved the gooey globs of cornbread stuffing pulled straight from the turkey as her grandmother tore meat from the poor bird’s carcass. She loved the spilling piles of candy that her kids never managed to get all the way through, but that they were so proud to bring home in big pillowcases…and then to use said pillowcase bags to whack each other with _. Boys._

With a figure that perpetually leaned a bit on the round side (as the snotty other mothers of Sunnydale Middle School continually reminded her – most of them her ex-classmates from the same school a million years ago), Diana had been on a permanent diet since the age of fourteen. But never during a holiday. It just wasn’t worth the agony, to berate herself about a couple thousand measly calories on those special days, when she spent the rest of her life doing just that. Of course, becoming a vampire had sort of thrown all her careful gluttony right out the window.

Was blood an option on the Weight Watchers menu? She was new to the ‘creature of the night’ thing, but there had to be a demon version of the group somewhere. Hell, diet groups were probably evil to start with. That would explain a lot of the horrible crap she’d eaten through the years.

Now, though, her sustenance was warm and pulsing, like the food of those gods from way back when. She tried to stick to bullies and asshats out of a deep-seated need to rid the world of all the jack-asses who made her feel fat for all her life and to wreak vengeance on whoever that dipshit was who had egged her husband’s car last year. Amidst her initial hunting, she was entirely pleased to discover she had what Sam called a thrall. It gave her quite the pick of food options: slender, or reedy, or muscular, or fat. It was a toss-up from night to night. Was she craving the healthy option or deluxe and greasy fast food?

Honestly, though, she couldn’t for the life of her figure out if the physical fitness of her meal had any real bearing on calorie intake. Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure digestion was really coming into play at all anymore.

Still, the train of thought was so ingrained in her, she found herself unable to look past it.

Sighing, Diana looked up her crossword in the basement apartment she shared with Sam. It was cozy and mostly normal looking – minus the lack of windows – and Sam had a surprisingly good eye for decorating. A small smile flitted on her lips. He reminded her of her youngest son in some ways; or, rather, what he might someday turn out like if she was very, very lucky. Of course, Brandon was all of twelve– no, thirteen now. She’d sat on the roof of her house last week and listened to the raucous middle school birthday party inside, counting the hammering hearts of all the almost-teens as they created mayhem with their hormones. Hormones she could practically taste these days. She’d stayed for as long as she dared, breathing deeply of her husband’s scent through the miasma, taking in all his sadness and stress and fatigue with fierce desperation. The hunger had driven her away at last, and she’d sprinted back to the apartment for the emergency stash of blood in her fridge, unable to help marveling at the easy way her limbs carried her onward as she fled.

Well, if there was one good thing about dying in the supermarket parking lot, it was that it had been good for her figure. No more acne. No more cellulite. No more red-faced sweating in heat or exertion or embarrassment. She was cool and smooth and full of vitality. A smile curved her lips. Those plastic school board bitches could shove it. Maybe she could convince Sam to let her eat them. Just this once.

Sam exited his bedroom in the midst of her thoughts, eyes zeroing in on her as he strolled into the living room. “Evening, Diana,” he said politely. God, they really didn’t make manners like that these days.

“Hi, Sam.”

She saw a flicker of inattention fill his face, his senses stretching to the apartment beside them, where the two kids shared a room. Claire, the little slip of a girl with that beautiful long hair that she let Diana brush when her fingers started to itch (she’d always wanted a girl); and Ferdy, a wild one who’d probably been so far in the closet before he’d been turned that he was practically falling out the back. Both older than her two boys by a good margin, but kids all the same. It seemed that whatever demon had claimed her skin for its own shared her maternal instincts, and she found herself nearly more possessive over the kids than Sam was. Of course, she was pretty sure she hadn’t had the temptation to slaughter random bystanders and let her kids suckle on her sated flesh before the whole vampirism thing took hold. Still, breastfeeding had been no picnic once upon a time. She rubbed her nipples in remembered hurt. Kurt had been a bitey little brat. It probably also wasn't typical that she now remembered that fact with a kind of pleasured pride.

Diana watched as Sam took the seat next to her at the dining room table, seemingly satisfied that all was as it should be. Their newest nestmate, some neurotic guy named Frank, was still fast asleep in the third bedroom.

“I’d like to have Thanksgiving," she said after a minute. "The kids… I think it’d be good for them. I can cook. Turkey and dressing and all that.”

Sam’s mouth flickered into a smile. “Sounds better than the army chicken I had way back when.”

“I’m guessing that’s worse than any diet food I ever had.”

“Don’t doubt it,” Sam agreed pleasantly. “Write me a grocery list when you have a second.”

Disappointment clattered at her feet. “Can’t I do the shopping? I used to like that.” Grocery shopping these days just wasn’t the same as it used to be. Not that it wasn’t satisfying, but it wasn’t the same. You didn’t shop for humans the same way you could shop for cans of beans. They got nervous when you stared, for one.

Sam turned solemn, like one of those army figures the National Guard kept shoving into tv ads. “Sorry, we’re keeping a low profile right now. Orders.”

Diana sighed and shoved her crossword away, a sudden flash of red frustration crossing her. She took a deep breath to keep the desire to rend and tear at bay. Fledgling rage, Sam called it. She called it PMS on steroids. By any name, it was a ball of tangled fury, all currently wailing against being so shackled. “Is it always going to be like this? Hiding?”

Sam regarded her seriously, eyes flickering amber in a way that immediately made her demon settle in obeisance. “You can cash in your chips anytime, Diana, but it’d be a damn shame.”

Diana felt the buzzing sense of Ferdy and Claire as they roused and stumbled into the hallway, no doubt about to knock on the door. It reminded her a bit of how her boys had felt when they’d been forming inside her, a constant presence that told her she wasn’t alone. “I’d rather have Thanksgiving, Sam.”

 

***

 

Buffy was incredibly tempted to start tying people to chairs. It was a Thanksgiving tradition, after all. Well, one year’s worth of tradition a literal century ago, but she wasn’t above stretching things. Particularly when it seemed like half of Sunnydale was in her kitchen. And most particularly because it wasn’t even Thanksgiving for another two days.

There hadn’t been any word on the attacking trio of college guys in nearly a month, and she harbored a faint hope that maybe there was nothing more to the odd villains. Maybe they’d thought better of it. Maybe they’d fled. But, much like the lingering worry of her Slayer dream, she wasn’t holding out hope. Still, the past month had barely seen her out of sight from the others. If it wasn’t Spike, it was Faith. Or Mathilde. Or Albert. Or Giles.

Today, it was the whole collection. Tara was nervously peeling about a hundred potatoes near the counter, looking pale and blushing in turn. It wasn’t hard to know why: Willow was coming back tonight (temporarily). Being Jewish, Christmas didn’t really mean anything to her, but she was apparently still fond of Thanksgiving.

“I’ve had to stop worrying about the whole Native American massacre mess,” Willow had said over the phone last week. “Or else I’ll just get all conflicted-girl.” A pause. “B-but, Buffy, I’d…”

“Willow,” Buffy said gently, “we’d love to see you.”

Willow’s voice had been faint and cracked, sounding almost ten years younger. “Really?”

“Really.”

Of course, Tara had turned into a nervous wreck over the whole thing, and had apparently bought out the entire stock of potatoes in the grocery store.

Spike was no better, the insane vampire. A century of living with Brits and travelling the world hadn’t lent itself to much celebration of the very American holiday; the last time they’d had anything serious to do with it had probably been back in the 1970’s. To Buffy, it had become a nostalgic remembrance of something that had once mattered. An afterthought at best. Spike, however, was ecstatic when Dawn had brought up Thanksgiving, and had launched into detailed planning with the youngest Summers.

Now, as Buffy stood in the kitchen doorway contemplating ropes, she watched her sister command the space like a miniature major-general. It ran in the family, apparently. Tara was on potatoes, Spike was very seriously attempting to brine their monstrously large turkey (honestly, the thing was the size of a baby fyarl), Giles was chopping celery (looking entirely baffled as to how he had been browbeat into that exact position), and Mathilde was very placidly slicing apples for pie. Anya was standing near the fridge, solemnly informing them of different demonic holiday traditions.

“The Kulos, they’re a fun breed. They drain the blood of six male virgins and then chop off–”

Buffy winced. “Anya?”

Anya looked over at her curiously. “Yes?”

“How’s the wedding planning coming?”

The ex-demon’s face brightened. “Very well, thank you for asking. I’m trying to decide if traditional blood larva and burlap is the way to go, or if I should be more avant-garde.”

Dawn looked up from where she was carefully rolling out pie crust, wrinkling her nose. “Uh, what does avant-garde mean?”

“Well, you know, trying it the human way. Polyester dresses and those ridiculously large ribbons.”

Dawn shrugged. “The dresses. Definitely the dresses.”

“Gonna second the Bit on that one,” Spike added, his blue eyes never leaving the turkey as he frowned at the crust of salt coating it like some bizarre spa treatment.

Anya shrugged. “I’ll consider it.”

Buffy and Tara shared pained looks, as recent recipients of bridesmaid invitations. God help them if Anya made them wear larva and burlap. Spike, for one, would never let her live it down. The several supernaturally-inclined Delancey weddings they’d attended through the years had bought more into the human traditions than the demonic, but Buffy wasn’t entirely certain that was such a concern to Anya. Sighing, she slipped into the dining room, where Xander, Albert, and Clem were very quietly playing poker, like animals hiding in the underbrush.

Xander gave her a wry look at she entered. “At least the wedding colors are now some weird bright green and white.”

Buffy raised a brow. “This is a good thing? Do I want to know what they were before?”

“Probably not.”

Clem smiled cheerily. “Well, green sounds nice.”

Xander winced. “Yeah. Nice.”

Buffy couldn’t help but laugh. “Why do I get the feeling I may actually hope Anya goes with blood larva?”

“Pretty sure it’s a toss-up at this point, Buffster.” His face turned a bit soft. “But I’m sure it’ll be perfect either way. It  _is_  Anya planning this thing.” His eyes found hers, looking both proud and slightly insecure. “She’s kinda great, isn’t she?”

“One of a kind. Probably literally."

“Yeah.” He turned back to his cards.

The sound of the front door opening coalesced with a rush of Slayer tinglies, accompanied by Faith as she strutted into the room. “Hey, B. Hey, gang.”

“How’s our Potential?”

Faith grinned, leaning against the back of Albert’s chair. “Five-by-five.”

“Good.”

She and Faith had started to take turns carefully corrupting the new girl, Amanda, when Mr. Bowen was otherwise occupied. It was a risky endeavor, but the last thing they needed was a Kendra-type running amok. Bowen was making things difficult enough. The man had nearly looked ill when he’d shown up on her doorstep shortly after his arrival in town, explaining that his new charge was being “suspicious and unreasonable.” He had apparently approached Giles first, only to have the Watcher nearly laugh in his face, saying with no small amusement, “I have no doubt one more strange man will make her just splendidly more amenable to the idea of her potential. Good show, old boy.” And then he’d shut the door in Bowen’s face (as Faith had laughingly recounted later).

Buffy knew her response hadn’t really been any more forgiving. She had joined the beefy Watcher on the porch, very pointedly shutting the front door behind her. “You just told a fourteen year-old-girl that she might be some mythical demon slayer someday. Exactly what did you expect?”

Mr. Bowen pursed his lips, looking strained and tense. After a moment, he turned a dark, speculative gaze on her. “Council records don’t state that sort of reaction from you, Miss Summers.”

Buffy stared at him for a long moment. Bowen had learned very early on that she was married, to his obvious shock. It was an impossible secret to keep, no matter how much safer the deception would have been; she flat-out refused to remove her wedding ring.

“Buffy,” Spike had said softly in bed, the day of Bowen’s arrival, “it’s not worth it, pet.”

Buffy clutched her right hand over her left, clasping the rings there. “No, Elly.  _No._  I’ve worn your ring for a hundred years. I’m not taking it off now.” She paused, looking up into her husband’s worried face. “I’m making it more dangerous for us, I know, but I… I just can’t hide it.  _I won’t_.”

Spike had kissed her fiercely, letting her know that she’d said exactly the right thing. “We’ll be careful, luv. Wanker won’t suspect much with me, at least, so long as I keep my distance.”

“We’ll be careful,” she echoed.

But she wouldn’t hide her married status. She stared at Bowen.

“ _Mrs._  Summers,” he amended after a moment, looking rather like he’d swallowed a lemon, although she wasn’t sure if it was from the idea of a Slayer being married or from the fact that she’d kept her maiden name.

“I was kind of an idiot,” she told him flatly. “If I had half of Amanda’s sense, I’d have done just what she did.” She paused. “And I was already the Slayer. Your Potential doesn’t have her Calling tugging at her.”

Bowen cleared his throat uncomfortably, brushing a nervous hand through his moustache. “Indeed.” It was obvious the man didn’t know what to do with her. He’d very clearly been told of the rebellious, terribly strong-willed Slayers in residence, but it was equally clear he had expected them to be young women who might still bend to his authority under proper pressure. It was all Buffy could do to avoid taking a leaf from Giles's book and laugh in the Watcher’s face.  _Do you have any idea how many stuffy Brits I’ve dealt with over the years? Do you know how long I’ve served death and stared life in the face?_  She wanted to ask him.  _Next to all that, you’re about as intimating as a hissy five-year-old._

“Faith and I will talk to her,” she said instead. And they had. And they’d continued to do so after their initial meeting, with slightly more secrecy, trying to undo Bowen’s teachings before they took hold. Fortunately, Amanda regarded anything out of Bowen’s mouth with extreme prejudice.

“I think I get this whole thing,” the girl had said the third time they’d met.

“Whole thing?”

“Right.” Amanda’s expression glowed with pride. She was a skinny teen, with brown hair longer than Dawn’s and a kind of pixie-ish face. Her eyes were bird sharp. “It’s like a lion pride. The women do all the work and the men take all the credit and hold all the power.”

Faith had nearly broken a rib with laughter. “Big problem with that thought, mini-me,” she’d said once she could speak again.

“What problem?”

“ _We_  actually have all the power,” Buffy said, with a slight smile. “Without us, they’re nothing.”

“Then why is Mr. Bowen’s head so far up his own ass?”

Faith almost lost it entirely with that.

Here and now, Faith regarded Albert’s poker hand with obvious appreciation. “Looking good, Al.”

Albert turned to her with a dark frown as Xander and Clem quickly folded, cards flying across the dining room table. “C’est impoli, Tueuse.”  _Rude._

Faith winked at him, obviously getting the meaning behind his words. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”

The French vampire cast her an exasperated look. “So it seems.”

 

***

 

Jonathan crouched at the edge of his desk, very gingerly pouring crushed Gotu kola into a circle. Luckily, Warren and Andrew were engaged at the other end of the basement, and Jonathan had a reputation for usually playing with some kind of spell, which had worked greatly in his favor this month.

So far, he’d managed to tame Warren for three weeks. A bit of emotional manipulation and wah-bam! Less insane friend. One who wasn’t trying to buy horse tranquilizers and date-rape drugs. In fact, Warren almost seemed back to normal, and he barely mentioned the Slayer or taking over Sunnydale. But the spell was waning again, making Warren jittery and snappish. Jonathan bit his lip and peeked over at his friends, who were arguing violently about the usefulness of a robot arm.

Geez, when was a robot arm  _not_  useful? Shaking his head, Jonathan bent and began mumbling the spell.

Without warning, a foam sword was lobbed into his lap and the Gotu kola flew in all directions. Jonathan’s spell cut off with a squeak.

“Get over here!” Warren said with clear annoyance. “We need a third–” He paused in the middle of the floor, his own foam sword held aloft. A strange glint shimmered into his eyes as he eyed the sword, tossing it lightly. “Huh.”

“Uh, Warren?” Jonathan sat up slowly, swallowing, eyeing the almost invisible thread of light that pulsed from the ruined spell ring. The ring was meant to take emotion and suck it right into the ether. But what was already in the ether could come back, if given the chance. Jonathan silently counted how many times he’d sucked Warren’s obsession into the ether. Four times.

Warren grinned slowly, the expression tugging at his lips like a demented Cheshire cat.

Shit. This couldn’t be good.

 

***

 

Warren hated the bitch. Fucking  _despised_  her. She was the whole reason Katrina had left in the first place, and it had all been downhill from there. He’d been reduced to running out of town like some common criminal and then to living in his parents’ basement, constantly being berated about those fucktards who kicked him out of MIT. Seeing his possible future had been the best thing to happen all year. Katrina had been with him again, and the Slayer was his slave (though she’d looked way more pathetic there. Something about resurrection that he'd mostly ignored). He’d never really thought about the prospect of enslavement before, to his annoyance. Buffy was a heinous bitch, but that just meant he wanted her farther from his life, not closer. She had her own thing with demons and crap, and he had his.

But his future self had quickly rid him of that stupidity. The Slayer was power. People wanted her. People would give life and limb to keep her from getting shishkabobbed. Including a vampire. In the other future, the pussy-whipped idiot apparently kept insisting on a trade – him for her. Half the satisfaction of the thing for other!Warren, he knew, was continually saying no.

“Listen, man,” other!Warren had said easily, with an arm slung over Warren’s shoulders, “you have to look at the bigger picture. You can’t have a bunch of big fish in a little pond. It’s crowded. It’s messy.” He shrugged easily. “So you take out the other fish. Kill ‘em or keep ‘em, up to you, but, personally, I think the second is the way to go. Waste not, right? But either way, your competition’s gone. Anything you want? It’s yours to take.” Other!Warren had stroked Katrina’s face as he said it, her expression blank and perfect. He paused and grabbed her chin violently, crushing it between his fingers as he pulled her close. “Tell me who’s in charge, baby.”

“You are, Master.”

“Hell yeah I am.”

Now, Warren walked faster. “Hell yeah I am,” he repeated, with more viciousness than his potential future counterpart. For whatever reason, the whole slave thing wasn’t working out, and he’d somehow gotten distracted for three fucking weeks. God damnit. How in the hell had that even happened? He spared a moment of suspicion, quickly overridden by his thoughts of the Slayer. She was all he could think about, his brain was teeming with her, like a house overrun by cockroaches. She thought she could just make all the rules? That she was in charge of the world? He sneered.  _Fucking bitch_.

He patted the gun in his jacket and walked faster. The words from his other self rang in his head.  _Kill ‘em or keep ‘em, up to you_. Screw the keeping. It was time to get this disgusting run-around over with. First her, then the brunette. By this time tomorrow, he’d be able to take anything he wanted from this pathetic town.

It was going to be a great Thanksgiving.

 

***

 

Buffy was just about to prop up her feet on the couch, fully intending to sprawl in a pleasant patch of late-afternoon sun, when the doorbell rang. She sighed, air puffing out from her cheeks in a way one of the Bits had once described as "chipmunk-like." Spike had just gotten the miniature holiday army out the door half an hour ago, and she had been looking forward to a short bout of couch potato-ness before Willow’s arrival. No such luck, apparently. The doorbell rang again.

“Buffy?” Dawn’s voice called from the kitchen, where she and Spike were “cleaning up.” Uh huh. They were totally eating pie scraps. “Need us to get that?”

“I’ve got it, Dawnie,” Buffy called. Then grumbling, “No rest for the immortal Slayer,” she pulled herself back to standing and made for the front door.

A young, dark-haired guy was on the other side, staring at her intently and – if she didn’t know better – furiously.

“Can I–” Buffy froze, her fingers digging into the door as her memory flitted back to the alleyway _._ He was one of _them_. “You,” she managed, sudden anger pounding into her brain. Her gaze darted around the yard, but he was alone. Maybe he’d come to…. apologize? (God, it wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing to happen on the Hellmouth).

“Hi, Buffy,” he said, with a strange, tight smile.

The familiarity of the address struck an odd chord. Crap, had she known this guy once upon a time? “Do I know you?”

He gaped at her for a moment, then fury overwhelmed his features. “ _Know_  me?  _You ruined my life, bitch_!” And all at once there was a gun pointed at her chest. “And I’ll be the last thing you ever know.”

She didn’t even have time to move before something cold and burning exploded in her chest, followed by a ringing that made her ears vibrate. Instinctively, she looked down, and saw red seeping from her shirt. Why was her shirt turning red? Everything trickled to slow motion, fuzzy and stilted and numb. Her knees turned weak, as if she was suddenly a hundred feet above the ground. Her vision started to waver as she examined the liquid staining her clothing, everything tilting far and close all at once.  _Oh_ , she thought distantly,  _I’ve been shot._

And then Spike was there, the presence of him rising through the fog that seemed to be overtaking her. She knew in some distant part of her mind that she had slid to the ground, but it was far away, covered in damp and mute. She could hear the shades of Spike’s voice, saying something to her urgently, fiercely, as clear and incoherent as bubbles underwater.  _It’s okay, Elly, I’m here,_  she thought muzzily. And then she fell into nothingness.


	22. Sunnydale-at-Large: Seeing Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember some of those graphic story tags? They're mostly for this chapter.

Xander drove back to Revello Drive with nervously tapping fingers. Anya gave him a speculative look from the passenger side.

“It’s just Willow. I don’t think she’s going to curse us again. I believe that was the point of her turning French.”

“Not what I’m worried about, Ahn.”

There was a pause. “Well, if you’re worried about meeting at Buffy and Spike’s house early, I think that’s very valid. They’re probably having sex.”

Xander winced. Well, there was a new mental image to firmly lock away. “Also wasn’t my worry, but it is now.”

Anya gave an exasperated huff. “Then what is wrong?”

“Nothing is  _wrong_ ,” he said hesitantly. “I’m just… Willow’s my best friend, you know? I don’t want it to be weird.”

“Well, Willow did cause a lot of harm. It was very well done, actually.”

“You don’t have to sound so admiring.”

Anya looked offended at the suggestion. “Yes, I do.”

Xander snapped his mouth shut. Slowly, but surely, he was learning it was better to just keep his mouth shut over certain things. He really didn’t like sleeping on the couch. “Anyway– AHH!”

Their car screeched to a sudden halt as Xander tried to avoid hitting the guy who suddenly decided racing in the middle of the street was a solid plan. What the hell? For a moment, Xander just stared at the guy, who looked… insane. And– wait, was that a  _gun_? The guy sprinted away. A moment later, something clicked.

“That was Warren.”

Anya stared after Warren’s fleeing figure. “The robot guy?”

“Yeah...” Xander felt unexplained dread pile in his stomach and he punched the accelerator. “We should get to Buffy’s house.”

 

***

 

There was too much blood. Tara knew she was covered in it, dyed red like a terrible version of Carrie. Spike was beside her, sobbing, holding pressure to Buffy’s chest. But there was too much blood.

“Hurry,” Spike begged her. “Fix her!” He was fully vamped out, but she wasn’t even sure he noticed. He was shaking Buffy. “Wake up, sweetheart! Oh fuck,  _wake up_!”

“Spike!” Tara grabbed his hand. “That’s not helping.”

He snarled at her, looking suddenly feral. “ _Fix her!_ ”

“ _There’s too much blood!_ ” Tara felt herself turn terrified at her outburst. “I-I-I can’t… there’s too much blood.”

A car squealed to a stop in the street and a moment later Xander was sprinting toward them. She faintly heard him stop dead. “Oh my god.” Then, “ _Oh my god!_  Buffy!” Xander kneeled beside them. “We have to call an ambulance!”

Dawn’s shaky voice sounded behind them in the doorway. “D-did.”

The sound of sirens echoed in the distance.

 

***

 

Buffy was in the middle of a dark and vaulted ocean. Frigid waves bit at her with razor-sharp teeth as she thrashed frantically to keep her head above water. But everything was swamped in cold, and she felt so  _heavy_ , as if her skin was no better than a block of molded lead.

There was no relief.

The waves tugged at her wearied limbs with merciless repetition.  _Down. Down. Down_.

Her desperate strength fled at last, after some interminable bout of time, and she wondered if there had ever been anything else but shadow and water. There was a niggling feeling in the back of her mind, that once there had been light. Once there had been voices. She couldn’t speak a word – her lungs burned.

Why was the world so dark?

The ocean took her under.

 

***

 

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. He stared down almost uncomprehendingly at Buffy’s body, pale and bloodied, on the hospital bed. The doctors were gone, carefully ignoring his fangs. He didn’t give a fuck one way or the other.

Buffy was dead. His Buffy was dead. Unwillingly, his mind was drawn back to the dimension he’d visited, to that other Spike.

_There’s a world where I didn’t fail, then?_

Spike felt his fingers clench into fists, claws digging deep pits into his skin.  _No, mate, you fail in every dimension._

His beautiful, glorious, immortal mate, with her face slack and bloodless. He was covered in her, his green shirt and his skin and his bursted heart drenched in her. Buffy.

No. God,  _no_.

A sob escaped him, sounding so loud in this room. This room where his wife lay dead.

God,  _no_.

The agonizing, terrible need to shed his miserable existence consumed him. He’d known for a century this might be how it ended, but  _god fuck Christ_  why did it have to be with his failure?

“Forgive me. I’m so sorry, my love. So sorry. Christ, forgive me. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He was clinging to her corpse, sobbing pathetic tears all over her dull face. His Buffy, his bright light, his raging bit of sun, was never dull. His Buffy was dead.

Somewhere in the back of his head where anything still existed, he heard the murmur of Harris’s hushed voice.  _Warren._

The worm’s scent was burned into his nostrils, the stench of rotten obsession. Their eyes had met for a split second, before the pathetic waste had taken off running. There had been no choice at the time. There was only Buffy.

Unbearable cold fury rose again, the only emotion stronger than the will to dust.

He stood abruptly, sending a trembling hand to caress Buffy’s cheek one last time. “It’s all I can do for you,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

Hate bubbled in him, higher and headier than he ever remembered, even at the height of Angelus’s teachings. Clarity burned through his veins. He swept from the room and into the hall.

Xander looked up from one of the visitors’ chairs with tear-stained cheeks. “Spike? Where are you going, man?”

Spike barely glanced at him or demon-girl as he strode purposefully down the hallway. “To do the only fucking thing that’s left.”

 _I will make you wish you’d never taken your first breath, you miserable inbred speck of shite_. And then he would live his last moments. Thank Christ. It was the only tolerable thought.  _Soon I can dust._

 

***

 

Xander stared after Spike’s retreating figure, turning back to Anya helplessly. “Should we…”

Anya shook her head with a sad, knowing look. “Let him go.”

He swallowed harshly. “We have to call Dawn…. We have to tell her. Then we should call the others.”

Anya patted his leg and stood, looking pale but collected. That was his Anya. She’d cry in his arms tonight for sure, but not now. “I’ll do it. Hopefully Tara will help Dawn not feel like she wants to die.” She blinked suddenly as she looked down the hall. “Willow’s here.”

“Huh?” Xander spun in his chair, nearly falling in surprise at the redhead sprinting down the hallway. He rose and met her in a fierce hug. “Wil!”

She gave a small, sad sort of laugh as she clung to him. “Hey, Mr. Shaggy.”

He pulled back questioningly. “Shaggy?”

“Your hair’s doing a-a thing. With the length and stuff.”

“I keep trying to get him to cut it,” Anya said stoically, eyeing Willow narrowly.

“Right.” Xander swallowed. “Wil… Buffy’s…”

“Dead.” Willow’s voice was a hollow breath, her face paling as she saw Buffy – Buffy’s body – laid out on the hospital bed. “Oh, goddess.”

“Yeah.” Xander felt tears slip down his face, and he brushed them away. “Warren… I don’t know. He seems to have been after her for a while. Not sure why.”

Willow didn’t turn for a long moment. She was just staring at Buffy. He couldn’t stare anymore. It made it too real. She’d always been  _Buffy_. Tiny girl with crazy Superman strength who gave the middle finger to death over and over again. And now she’d become this crazy adult person who had been alive for over a hundred years… only to have Sunnydale kill her in less than one.

Willow whirled to him, her resolve face flashing. “How long has it been?”

“Huh?”

Willow huffed impatiently. “How long since Buffy’s been dead?”

“Uhm.”

“Less than thirty minutes?”

His gaze flickered to the clock in the hall. What time was it even? “Uh, yeah. I think.”

“Good.”

 

***

 

_“Does it ever get easy?”_

_“You mean life?”_

_“Yeah, does it get easy?”_

_“What do you want me to say?”_

_“Lie to me.”_

_“Yes. It's terribly simple. The good guys are always stalwart and true. The bad guys are easily distinguished by their pointy horns or black hats, and, uh, we always defeat them and save the day. No one ever dies and... everybody lives happily ever after.”_

_“Liar.”_

Funny, Buffy thought, that she should remember that conversation now, and after so many years. She hadn’t thought about Ford in probably half a century, and even then only in passing. In a life of gray and murk, he had only been the opening act.

“It’s a crazy, mixed up world, ain’t it, sweetheart?”

Her eyes snapped open. Her first view was of plaster ceiling, dark with shadow. It was a strangely familiar ceiling. She rose to a sitting position, blinking. Huh. She was in the bedroom of one of a million of her previous apartments. This one had been in London, shortly after the war. The sounds of a party filtered in from the living room, dimmed and dulled by walls. Memory trickled in. It was 1948. She remembered this night. She’d been tired, plagued by headaches and reminders of war, and had slipped in here for the quiet. She’d fallen asleep listening to the doldrum chirp of crickets.

It had been solitary and as close to tranquil as she could get at the time.

But that had been in 1948. Right now, there was a strange man standing in the corner. He eyed her with an amused smile, wearing a suit that was seriously out of time both in 2001 and here. He was short and oddly…

“Whistler.”

The PTB agent smiled with pride. “So you remember me.”

She threw her legs over the edge of the bed, her slacks tugging against the comforter as she slid to a stand. “You don’t really forget the guy who tells you that you have to kill your first love.”

Whistler’s expression melted into slightly apprehensive. “Hey, now. That was a long time ago.”

“A long time,” she agreed. She frowned at him. “What are you doing here? Better question yet, what am  _I_  doing here?”

Whistler let out a huge, puffing sigh. “What’s the last thing you remember, Slayer?”

The last thing? She blinked, and all at once it came rushing back. Thanksgiving. Warren. Her shirt turning red. Water. Drowning. “Oh god.” She stared at Whistler. “I’m dead?”

The demon gave her an apologetic smile. “That you are.”

Her breath felt stolen from her. “Oh god.  _Elly_.” She started trembling all over. “You have to send me back! I have to get back!”

Whistler held up his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Hey now, just hold your horses.” He sighed. “Your friends are working on it.”

Dread trickled down her spine. “Working on it? They’re not… resurrecting me, are they?”

Whistler gave her a sympathetic look. “No, kiddo. Don’t you worry about that.”

“How long?”

“Long?”

“How long until I get back?”

“Oh, well, time doesn’t really mean much here.”

She gave him a hard look. “How long is it  _there_?”

“If your friends can get you out? Half a day, give or take.”

Her blood ran cold. “And Elly thinks I’m dead?”

Whistler very nervously fingered his hat. “Well, technically, you  _are_  dead, Slayer.”

Furious terror rose up in her and she strode over the pompous demon and grabbed him by his collar. With a snarl, she slammed him hard against the wall, making the plaster crack and shudder. “Don’t screw with me,  _you son of a bitch_! If something happens to Spike, I will spend every moment of my existence ripping you apart!”

Whistler wheezed painfully around her grasp. “Not dead,” he gasped. Then, when she furiously flung him to the carpet, “well, not deader, anyway.” He rubbed his throat wincingly. “He’s busy at the moment.”

“Busy?”

Whistler gave her a steady, unreadable look. “Avenging you.”

 

***

 

Dark had fallen as Spike strode to Revello Drive.

He barely noticed passersby, except for a startled exclamation of, “Mr. Summers?!”

He glanced sideways at the horrified Mr. Bowen and fixed him with a cold amber glare, fangs flashing. “I’d rip your head off, mate, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Sod off.” And then he kept walking.

The French vampires were waiting on the porch, Mathilde with his duster in hand, as he’d asked. Thank bloody fuck for mobiles. Lawson and his fledges were to the side, the youngsters looking entirely overwhelmed by the scent of blood and the thrum of four Master vampires.

Mathilde handed him his coat and he slid it on. It felt right. He knew just how to kill in this coat.

He could hear the Bit inside with Glinda, crying her little eyes out, and he felt a momentary twinge. But that was all. He and Buffy had their accounts set up proper. Their family would never want for anything.

He fixed a fierce glare on the vampires. “Follow the scent. Find the fucking meatbag. But leave him for me. He’s  _mine_.”

Lawson and the French vampires exchanged looks.

“With all our blood,” Albert told him solemnly.

“For the General,” Lawson said with cold precision.

Mathilde’s eyes flashed amber. “Nous vous suivrons.”  _We will follow you._

 

***

 

Warren ran. It was supposed to be over. It was supposed to be  _done_. The Slayer was dead. He knew even before he ran that she was worm food. Her pathetic vampire lover had known, too. He could see it in his eyes.

Those eyes that promised death.

Warren flung the gun into bushes several blocks away and ran. He dismissed going after the other Slayer, he couldn’t even recall the bitch’s address. His brain too full, still crawling with  _her_. Buffy Summers. All his thoughts sank down, meeting where the maggots would now feast on her flesh.

“Aggghh!” He swiped at his own head, ripped at his hair, but the vision of her wouldn’t leave. “ _GET OUT OF MY HEAD_!”

He ran back to the basement, slamming open the doors, interrupting whatever stupid conversation Jonathan and Andrew were having. They stared at him, open-mouthed. Andrew’s bowl of popcorn slid to the floor, sending kernels sprawling across the carpet like ants.

“So… you killed her?” Andrew’s voice was hushed.

“Of course I fucking killed her!” He paced the basement jerkily. “But I did it too fast. Can’t get her out! Fucking mind-wrecking whore!”

Jonathan stepped toward him slowly, hand outstretched like he was some stupid wild animal. “Warren, maybe you should–”

“Shut up, dickweed!” He shook his head violently. “No, what I need to do is clear out. Lay low, until I can figure out a good way to get rid of the rest of them. Whatever  _team_  they’ve got going. That must be it. Must be why I can’t get her out!” He watched Andrew and Jonathan exchange looks. “ _What_.”

Jonathan turned to him with a serious gaze. “Yeah, lay low. We’ll… s-stay here. Throw anyone off your trail.”

“Yeah.” Warren narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, alright.” He flung his belongings into a sack and then headed toward the door. “See you on the flipside.”

Jonathan’s “Goodbye, Warren,” floated back to him as he left, but all his brain could hear was the Slayer’s voice.  _You._

_You._

_You._

 

***

 

“So why am I here? What is this place?”

Whistler shrugged. “Think of it as limbo.”

“My bedroom from fifty years ago?”

“Hey, it’s built from your subconscious.”

Buffy sighed, rubbing her temples, and sat back on the bed. God, she was dead. With a capital D. If that was actually a thing. She stared at her wedding ring, trying to keep panic from rising. Spike was alive. And she would get back to him. “Right. Okay. And you’re here  _why_ , exactly?”

“Don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I thought you could use the company?” Buffy fixed him with a withering glare and Whistler winced. “Right. Not in the mood for humor.” He sighed, fingering his hat in his hands. “See, we expected the Council to make a pest of itself, but your teen witch’s little Time Machine stunt threw everything for a loop. Nearly blew the top off, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“Oh come on, Slayer. I’ve done everything except throw you a parade. Seventy-six trombones, sweetheart.” He chuckled at that as if he’d actually said something funny, earning himself a very unamused look and a raised brow. “Never mind. Just something your vampire love says in a couple different dimensions.”

“What are you, some kind of dimensional peeping tom?”

“Hey, hey, don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m just following orders. See, your dimension is unique. Never been a Hellmouth society like the one you and William are building.”

“So, we’re what, the Powers' little science experiment?”

“I mean, if you want to get technical about it.”

Buffy let out a sigh in sudden realization. “You’re the one who pointed Lawson our way.”

Whistler smiled proudly. “That I did.”

“God, what it is with you and Angel? First Angel and now one of his children? Do you have a hard-on for him?”

“Hey!” Whistler glared at her. “Doesn’t seem like you’ve been complaining, missy.”

Buffy shrugged defeat. “No, you’re right. For once, you sent the right vampire for the job.”

“Was a compliment really that hard to come by, Slayer?”

Buffy felt irritation well in her again and she stood, starting to pace wildly. “Well, forgive me if I’m not jumping up and down right now. I’m dead, hoping I can get back to the love of my life before there’s no love of my life to get back to, and now you’re telling me that we’ve been part of some cosmic petri dish with you assholes pulling all the strings!”

Whistler sighed. “We’re not pulling all the strings. We’re just, ah, encouraging a certain direction.”

Buffy halted in her pacing and fixed him with a Slayer-y gaze. “And what direction might that be?”

Whistler stared at her in exasperation. Finally, he threw up his hands. “Look, it’s a touch of war, okay? I don’t know how much more clearly I can spell this out. You and William the Bloody, you’ve got some major flashback scenarios heading your way. Should be old hat for you two, but the guys upstairs knew it would wipe out this little demon utopia you’ve got going on without a little back-up.”

Confusion flooded her. “Wait, you’re saying the Council is going to declare  _war_? They don’t exactly have an army, Whistler.”

He sighed, staring down at his hat. “They don’t, but they’re not the only players on the field.”

Buffy frowned and made to ask him what the hell  _that_  meant, when Whistler’s gaze snapped back to her, with a small, excited smile. “Hold on tight, sweetheart. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

And then suddenly she was back in the dark ocean, fighting against its inexorable pull. Everything else fled.

 

***

 

“You sure this doesn’t count as resurrecting her?”

“Completely,” Willow said, scattering some assortment of herbs around Buffy’s body that she’d teleported from the Magic Box (with Anya’s flat demand that she pay for it all when this was over). “I’m not bringing her back to life so much as… keeping her in a spot in time from before she needed to be.”

Xander shook his head slowly. A time loop. Geez, and he thought things couldn’t get weirder on the Hellmouth. He looked over at Anya, who was frowning intently. “Honey? What do you think?”

Anya met his gaze with a steadiness that almost made him shiver. Sometimes it was easy to forget that she was a thousand year old ex-demon. But not at this moment. “I think Buffy would never forgive us if we didn’t give her the chance to get back to Spike.”

“Right.” Xander slumped back into the waiting chair, half-dozing as Willow completed the spell, in a creepy language he didn’t know and probably didn’t want to. The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. For a long moment, it seemed like nothing was different at all, then Buffy’s body seemed to shimmer, and he watched his friend’s corpse come back to life. Blood pooled in her chest, ragged and gaping, her eyes sightless and glazed with pain as she took harsh, dying breaths. He couldn’t look away.

“This is kind of sick, Wils.”

Willow looked abashed, then her face grew defensive. “Hey, it’s better than resurrecting her.” She paused. “As long as I can figure out how to get her out of there.”

“ _What?_ ”

Willow winced. “I played with this spell… before. When I was trying to figure out how to time travel? B-but I didn’t, um, get to the whole getsomethingoutofthelooppart.” Both Xander and Anya just stared at her and Willow reddened further, before straightening resolutely. “We’d better call Giles. So he can, erm, help.”

 

***

 

Giles stared down at the slightly shimmering form of his dying once-charge, feeling the strangest mix of revulsion and relief. Willow was hovering anxiously in the background, like some absurd housefly. He was about to snap at her to desist, when Faith’s voice sounded behind him.

“Willow, chill for a minute. You’re making me dizzy.”

Willow looked panicked, then nodded and went to slump in a nearby chair next to Xander and Anya.

Giles took a deep, calming breath and turned to the witch. “Tell me again how you did this, Willow.”

Willow watched him with large, worried eyes. “You’re not angry?”

“What I am at this moment is of exactly zero concern,” he managed stiffly. “Buffy’s… health is my only current focus.”

 

***

 

Jonathan packed up his figurines with what he hoped was almost superhuman speed. And cash. He’d need cash. He paused on the way to cash box, glancing at Andrew’s dejected form. The other man was staring blankly at a much-scribbled notebook with  _Vampyre Slayer_ written on the front.

“He really killed her.” Andrew turned to face him, gaze wide and confused. “But the hero always wins.”

Jonathan sighed. “It’s not a stupid comic book.”

Andrew glared at him. “Since when do you call comic books stupid?”

“Since our friend just murdered Buffy!”

Both men were silent for a long moment, then Andrew very gingerly set down his notebook. “Where are you going?”

“Mexico. Wanna come?”

“Yeah.”

 

***

 

Xander looked over at Willow’s worried form and then back to Buffy’s still body. They’d reached the point of her death again, and her chest was eerily still. Giles was in the hall, having a heated conversation with one of his magical contact guys, and Faith and Anya had gone to get coffee. “Do you think she’ll remember this, when we get her out?”

Willow was suspiciously silent.

“Wils,” he said more sharply. “Will she remember this?”

“Um,” Willow’s face turned a bit red, her eyes darting between him and the bed. “Probably,” she squeaked.

Xander just stared at her, a sick twisting feeling nestling in his stomach. “Buffy’s going to remember dying over and over again?”

“Probably,” Willow said again, visibly wincing this time.

For a long moment, Xander wondered if going to get trained in Paris had done anything at all for the witch. Then he took a deep breath. Her first suggestion had been to call Giles. That, at least, was new. He glanced over helplessly at Buffy’s looped body. And it wasn’t like they had a whole bunch of other handy options.

“Right,” he said, looking around the room. “Do you see a phonebook somewhere?”

Willow looked at him a bit blankly. “Phonebook?”

Xander just nodded firmly, beginning to poke around. He peeked out into the hall and spied the nurse’s desk not far away. “Phonebook,” he confirmed, over his shoulder, as he made a beeline for it. “We need the yellow pages.” He paused, smiling a real smile as he caught a phonebook – one of those mini ones – resting by the phone on the counter. “Because when Buffy gets out of this, she’s going to need a whole hell of a lot of therapy.”

 

***

 

Buffy found herself back in her apartment bed with a gasp. “What the hell was  _that_?”

Whistler beamed at her. “Your friends are doing their thing, sweetheart.”

She shakily drew herself back to sitting. “I thought this thing was supposed to bring me back to life, not kill me again.”

“They’re working on it.”

Buff groaned. “It’s never easy.”

“That’s life.”

 _My life, at least,_  Buffy thought wryly. But Spike had always made it easier. Her heart clenched again.  _Don’t do anything stupid, William._  It was entirely twisted, but she hoped that whatever constituted vengeance would take him a very long time.

 

***

 

It took their nest of vampires nearly two hours to find the loathsome meatbag, and they were the worst hours of Spike’s life. It was entirely laughable that the tosser had chosen to flee into the woods.  _All the better to tear you apart in. No one will hear you scream, mate._  Not that it really mattered if they did, but at least this place guaranteed no interruptions.

The French vampires and Lawson’s band left him at the edge of the trees. There was no real need to speak.  _Kill the one who killed your mate._

He nodded shortly, with a low, “Ta,” and slid into the darkened growth.

He smelled the vile worm first, caught the pattering of his erratic heartbeat as he ran. But not much could outrun a Master vampire. The bastard didn’t even have time to squeal before Spike had him thrust against a tree, rattling the worm’s teeth hard enough to make the sound audible.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said pleasantly around his fangs, delighting in the waste’s terrified gargling. Grinning coldly, he leaned in close, though the smell immediately made him want to rend the sad excuse for a human limb from limb. His demon was crying out for death and blood. “Did you really think you’d get away, you shite eating dog?”

He threw the miserable worm to the ground, where he tried to scramble away with a coughing cry.

“None of that now,” Spike said sharply, grabbing him by an ankle and pulling back with ease, letting him scrabble against the dirt, leaving pathetic tears and fingermarks behind.

“You’ve got the wrong–”

“ _SHUT THE BLOODY FUCK U_ P!”

The meatbag’s voice subsided into keening whimpers and he crumpled at Spike’s feet. “I’m a bit rusty,” Spike heard himself say casually, after a moment. “The torture bit was always Peaches’s gig.” He eyed the meatbag distantly. How had this speck of filth taken his mate? His gorgeous, eternal, bright light. Dimmed by  _this_. “But it’s not something you really forget.” His lips curled in disgust as he lifted the waste by his shirt collar to look into his terrified eyes, the sudden rankness of urea revealing that he’d pissed himself. “By the time I’m done with you,” he said with careful emphasis, “the bloody ranks of hell will have to redefine the meaning of pain.”

“Please… please,” came the meatbag’s hoarse whisper, “I’ll give you anything you want!”

“You keep talking and I’ll rip out your tongue.”

He subsided into keening whimpers.

“Problem with most… artists,” Spike continued, tossing the meatbag to the ground, “is they go for all the big hurts, yeah? Used to be my fancy. Railroad spike was good enough for me. Not much into subtlety. Prolly why my poetry was such rubbish. But Angelus… the Poof knew how to turn a paper cut into weeks of agony.”

It had been a long time since he’d thought about Angelus’s teaching methods. Decades, probably, since he’d pondered them in much detail. But it wasn’t something you fucking forgot. He still felt a clench of pain remembering how Angelus had broken both of his legs as a fledge and then chained him up for days after he’d dared improve a hunt with a nice brawl. As a lesson, the Poof fucked Dru from noon to midnight for two days straight and thrashed her twice, then stood in the room where Spike was chained and had her suck his prick, thrusting against her violently and staring smugly at Spike the entire time. It had been a worse pain than his broken legs, watching that. But that hadn’t been the worst part.

After Angelus had released him from his bonds, his vamp healing had already mended his shattered limbs, but the bones had never been reset. He’d had to re-break both legs himself so they’d heal correctly, and then he’d not been able to move again for another several days, this time of his own doing. Angelus spent the time sending him faux-pitying remarks and fucking Dru all over again. She’d smelled like his grandsire’s cock for weeks.

Angelus was the fucking father of torture.

Spike sneered at the meatbag at his feet. For Buffy, he’d take a leaf from his grandsire’s book. She was owed so much more. She deserved a decade of torture in her name. But he was weak. He couldn’t live that long without her.

“Guess we’ll just have to make a few hours count,” he murmured, reaching down and crushing the meatbag’s left foot, listening to the merry grating of bone as it ruptured. The accompanying scream curled his lips up into a smile.

 

***

 

Buffy sat up from her bed with a groan, dizzy from her most recent death. The chill of the water seemed to follow her this time. “This is getting really old. How many more times is this going to happen?”

Whistler shrugged. “Sorry, Slayer, not in the know on that. It all depends on how fast your friends work.”

“If they can get me out at all,” Buffy whispered, hope beginning to fade with each successive death. She swallowed. “Spike’s still alive?”

“Still alive, kiddo.” There was clear hesitation.

Buffy felt her heart slide into panic. “What’s happening?”

Whistler just shook his head. “He’s in a bad place, your guy. Gotta tell you, pretty glad I’m not your shooter right now.”

“I don’t want to know,” she said shortly, staring at her wedding ring.  _I swear, love William._

They were silent for a long stretch.

“I married a soulless vampire,” she said at last. “I asked him to marry me after he killed four men to save me. I know what he is.”

“Yeah.” Whistler gave her an evaluating look. “You’re a special breed of Buffy, you know. Hard to make your kind so gray hat.”

Memories of a battered and beaten Spike rose in her mind. “I’d rather be gray hat than… broken.”

Whistler nodded understanding. “You know, kiddo, you changed the fate of an entire dimension.” He whistled lowly. “Good job.”

Surprise lit into a smile. “The one I went to?”

“Bingo. You’ve got a hell of an influence.” He raised a brow knowingly. “Of course, didn’t need to see you in another dimension to figure that bit out, General.”

She laughed slightly despite herself. “Elly says it’s my specialty… making people fall in line.”

“It’s a good one.”

Buffy eyed the demon steadily. “Speaking of… you said there were other players on this board. For whatever’s coming.”

“That’s right.” Whistler, gaze growing distant. “But you’ll have to hold that thought.”

She groaned. “Again?”

“Sorry, kiddo.”

She took a deep, steadying breath.

And then the ocean swamped her under again.

 

***

 

Faith sat in the chair next to Buffy’s bed. Her leg was jiggling wildly, but since there wasn’t a single demon around to take her energy out on, this was as good as it got. The others were all off figuring out the magic crap, so she’d offered to stand watch.

“Damn, B,” she whispered, staring at Buffy’s still form. She looked… well, like a fucking corpse. Her skin was pallid and blotched, her tiny form covered in red. “You look like a  _Scream_  extra. Gotta tell you, good thing your loverboy didn’t plan on vamping you. Pale is not your color.”

When Buffy didn’t answer, Faith swallowed and leaned forward farther. “You gotta get out of this, you know. Not ready for you to be gone. You’re…” her throat tightened, “you’re my sister, alright? Sister from another mother and all that crap. Whole reason I’m even here is because you suck at staying dead.”

There was a pause as Buffy started breathing laboriously again, in the throes of death, and Faith knew her leg had started to jiggle faster. “You just gotta suck at staying dead this time, too, B. Okay?”

 

***

 

Spike fought the constant urge to just rip the waste’s head clean off from his shoulders, shackling every murderous impulse with something even darker. Ironic that he was channeling Angelus as a paragon of control. But then, the whole world was fucking toppled, it only made sense.

His only irritation was that the worthless sack of breath had the propensity to pass out just as things were getting interesting. He lacked Angelus’s tools or a proper dungeon and the harsher sexual tortures were off the table, seeing as they required him wanting his prick anywhere near the hideous worm. He was sure the meatbag would suck plenty of cock in hell.

Still, even with those limitations, it was probably the best poem he’d ever written. Of course, he was writing it for her, and she’d always inspired his best work, even if it was all punctuated by fucking human weakness.

In the middle of ripping off the worm’s balls and letting the round globules drop on his chest as a reminder that he wasn’t worthy of the gender? Tosser’s eyes rolled up into oblivion. Breaking rib number four with immense slowness? Wanker dropped limp to the ground.

But that was alright, in the end. He decided the poem would be written in couplets, powerful sets with large breaks in between. The metering was shite, but the imagery was the best he’d ever done.

 

***

 

Willow rushed back into the room, her face flushed, Giles a half step behind her. “We have it! We have an idea!”

Xander sat up, rubbing his eyes. “That’s great, Wil.”

Anya nodded. “It’s very disturbing watching Buffy die over and over again.” She paused, wistfulness enveloping her. “Would have made for great vengeance, back in the day.”

Giles sighed, looking much older than his age. Anya hoped he was feeling sturdier than he looked. Any magic to get Buffy out of a time loop wasn’t going to be anything to sneeze at.

Surprisingly, Willow looked straight at her. “Anya, can we have your help?”

Pride curved her lips into a smile. “Of course.”

 

***

 

Spike briefly considered staking himself right then and there when it was at last done. When there was nothing enough left to even be recognizable as that hideous worm within the pile of mutilated flesh, but the thought disgusted him entirely. The last place he wanted to dust was next to the vile garbage that had taken away his reason for being.

He entertained going back to the hospital and dusting by Buffy’s body. But that’s all it was now. Her body. Wrecked by filth. It wasn’t her. Not Buffy. He drew a shuddering breath, clenching his fists to keep from coming apart. He bit into his lips with his fangs, reminding the demon to remain, so that the man could shrivel into nothing without interruption. But the demon in him really needed no urging.

No, Spike decided at last, letting a gaunt, terrible smile pull at his lips, he would go to where his heart was. To where the only thing that still meant anything still rested, if only in memory.

And then, at last, he could meet his end.

_Thank bloody fuck._

 

***

 

“Why didn’t you show before? In person?”

Whistler gave her an incredulous look. “You think we didn’t hear all those threats through the years? You’re one scary woman.”

Buffy grinned. “Glad to know you were listening.” She sighed. “So, about these other players…”

“You already know them, Slayer.”

“Want to narrow that down a bit? Elly and I have been around for a long time.”

Whistler seemed about to answer, when his face suddenly grew distant. When he looked back at her, he was smiling slightly. “Looks like our time’s about up, kiddo.”

Hope blossomed in her chest. “I’m getting back?”

Whistler nodded and his gaze again grew detached. This time when he met her eyes, his expression was pale. “And Slayer?”

“What?”

“Run.”

And then the room was swept away. But instead of plummeting toward dark ocean like all the times before, she was falling…. upward? Everything was speeding by like a highway on fast-forward as she rose. There was light this time, and gargles of sound. They sounded familiar, like…. Xander? Willow? She fought toward the light and noise, finding it strangely easy after the mind control debacle. And something was pushing her onward, upward.

She gasped awake, in her bed again. No, not her bed. White light glared around her, and everything was murky and flashing. Her chest pounded, aching.

Squeals of sound burst into her eardrums, followed quickly by several heavy forms.

“ _Buffy!_ ”

“Oh, dear lord, don’t suffocate her!”

“Welcome back, B!”

After a moment, Buffy struggled to a sit, wincing under the bright lights. Willow stood next to her, beaming with relief and pride. Giles was touching her shoulder, looking relieved and haggard. Xander and Anya were next to him, smiling warmly at her, and Faith was to the side, looking almost teary-eyed.

“I’m alive,” Buffy heard herself rasp.

Willow nodded vigorously. “We-we put you in a time loop and fixed your wound. It’s not perfect but not, you know, kill Buffy bad.”

Buffy looked down at her drenched shirt.

Xander cleared his throat. “Are you okay, Buffster?”

“Yeah,” she said slowly, looking around at them. “I’m okay.” Whistler’s voice rang suddenly in her head.  _Run._  Fear flooded her. “Where’s Spike?”

The assembled crew looked uneasily between themselves.

“He left after you died,” Anya said finally. “The first time.”

Buffy pulled herself firmly to a stand, frowning as her legs wobbled. Fuck it. Her body would just have to deal. “I need to find him. Now.”

 

***

 

Glory’s tower was long bloody gone, plowed over into some useless cark park. Figured that the site of the near end of the world, of his and Buffy’s jump, of the beginning of everything, was nothing more interesting nowadays than a sodding car park.

Didn’t matter, though. He could still see it in his mind. See Buffy’s glowing, smiling face, so full of love that it was like a jolt through his heart.  _So you’ll have me, for another hundred years at least?_

He closed his eyes against the tears that patterned down his cheeks. “I’ll have you until I’m dust,” he said hoarsely to his phantom Buffy, fingering the stake in his hand, “And even then, everything that remains is yours.”

It was a sort of comfort in his last moments, that he swore he could hear Buffy calling out to him, sounding as desperate for him as he was for her.  _Ellyyyyy! Ellyyyyy!_

“I’m coming, luv,” he whispered brokenly. Well, he wasn’t. And he bloody well knew that. No sodding soul to take him to where the meaning of his existence resided. And for the first and only time, he regretted not having the cursed thing. But oblivion and hell would have to do. It couldn’t be worse than this.

 

***

 

She wasn’t going to make it. That was Buffy’s only thought as she hurled herself across the parking lot.  _No no no no no no_. “Elllyyyyyy!” she screamed again.  _You stupid vampire_ , she sobbed internally, as she watched him raise the stake, heard his fierce, “I love you, Buffy.”

“ _Elllyyyyy_!” And somehow, as if the PTB were making up for every shitty thing they’d ever done to her in any and all dimensions, she was there, tackling her reason for existence before he turned to dust. They collapsed to the ground in a bulldozed tangle, and somehow she ended up on top.

“Where  _the fuck_  do you think you’re going,” she sobbed at him, wrenching the stake away from his shocked fingers and throwing it across the parking lot with every bit of Slayer strength she owned. And then she collapsed brokenly on his chest.

Underneath her, Spike was breathing with incredible, quick harshness. “Buffy?” His words were almost soundless, filled with incredible disbelief, and heartache, and hope. Then, “Buffy! Oh, god,  _Buffy!_ ” And suddenly she was being crushed against her vampire’s chest, and he was kissing her everywhere – on her jaw and neck and the edges of her mouth – his hands running over every inch of her body.

She yanked his pants down without another word – his cock hard from the shock – and kicked away her own pants, impaling herself on him, and they both cried out as he filled her. Spike’s hands moved to hers and held her in an iron grip. She held him back with a ferocity that would’ve broken him if he’d been human, both of them desperately telling each other, _I’m here. I’m here. I’m here._ Wordlessly, Spike rolled them over so that he was on top, deep inside her as she let herself be crushed against the pavement. They fucked desperately on the black top, scraped and bleeding and sobbing.

“Not enough,” she gasped between desperate kisses. “Not enough.”

Her husband snarled agreement and she felt the bones shift in his face, felt the rising sense of his presence as he rutted against her, ruthlessly thrusting her into the ground. She shoved back against him with equal fervor, digging her nails into his skin mercilessly. “Yes, yes, yes.”

His fangs plunged into her neck and they both shuddered. He barely pulled blood from her, just sank into her veins as deeply as he could go, latched into her skin. It wasn’t enough. Buffy bent her head slightly and sunk her blunt teeth in his neck in return until she broke the skin. She didn’t let go. Spike keened against her, the noise vibrating through her entire body like a shockwave. His thrusts became even more uncontrolled, and the grip of his hands in hers turned fiercer. He started to drink in earnest, long piercing pulls that threw her into sudden orgasm, deeper than the ocean she’d been trapped in, but this one full of life and love and power. She bit down harder as she strangled his cock and he whimpered above her, exploding into his own release a moment later.

Shivering, Spike released her neck and his face bled back into a wondering, terrified human guise. “Buffy?”

“Elly.” She kissed him tenderly, her hands coming up to hold either side of his face.

He trembled above her. “You died.”

“I know.”

“Is this real?”

“Very.”

He stared at her for a moment longer. “God, I almost…”

“Shhh,” she whispered into his ear, leaning to rest her lips against the bite marks she’d ripped into his skin. “I’m here.”

The touch of her bite mark did it. Spike collapsed into deep, heavy sobs against her, and she held him fiercely as he cried, her eyes finding the sky as dawn peeked over the horizon with tendrilling gold fingers. The Powers had heard all her condemnations through time, apparently, so chances were good they’d hear words of another kind, too. She kissed Spike’s temple gently and stared into the lightening sky.

_Thank you._

_Thank you._

_Thank you._


	23. Feral

It was official: her husband was feral.

It hadn’t started off that way. They’d eventually been able to pick themselves up off the pavement in Glory’s ex-stomping grounds, Buffy clinging to Spike without any real desire to let go. Maybe ever.  _I almost lost him_ , was her litanous thought. Of course, she knew Spike’s mind was far more jumbled. He didn’t seem inclined to let her go, either.

It wasn’t until they attempted to move that Buffy realized the only thing holding her up was the vampire at her side. A semi-healed gunshot wound, spectacular blood loss, and an adrenaline crash apparently equaled unworking Buffy legs.

Spike just swept her into his arms as she stumbled. “I’ve got you, luv.” He swallowed roughly, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve got you.”

She simply clung to his chest and nodded. He only asked her two questions on the way home.

“How?” and “Do you forgive me?”

For the first, she told him about Willow’s spell and all the pieces of limbo and Whistler that her failing energy could muster. For the second – which she knew was some mix of  _forgive me for not keeping you safe_  and  _forgive me for killing_  and  _forgive me for being weak_  and a million other shades of shock and distress – she just emitted a shaky, laughing sob and whispered, “Only if you forgive me for dying on you, Elly.”

Spike stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his face an inch from hers and his breath coming in harsh pants. “I still don’t trust that I haven’t popped my clogs. Might just be stark raving in some corner of hell dreaming of you.”

She didn’t think it was probably the wisest move at this moment to tell him she knew this was real because she now knew what not existing felt like. His muscles were trembling violently beneath her, as if he was a moment from snapping entirely. “Then I guess we’re both dreaming.”

“Hope I never sodding wake up then,” he murmured, and started walking again.

And despite the fact that they were reeling in ways neither of them had the energy to think about at the moment, she couldn’t help but be swamped by the simplicity of overwhelming relief. She was in Spike’s arms; they were going to be okay.

Then they found Bowen was standing on their front porch with a crossbow, and it all went to hell. The moment the bit of wood was pointed near Buffy’s vicinity, a thunderous rumble started in her husband’s chest.

Buffy struggled to sit up in Spike’s arms, which were banded against her with almost suffocating strength as he flung himself around in a half circle to shield her. He was flat-out snarling now and in game face. She saw a glimpse of Bowen’s grimly determined, disgusted, and very unsurprised face over Spike’s shoulder. He knew. Somehow, he knew. Panic consumed her. She felt Spike’s entire body tense, though she wasn’t sure if it was to flee or rip the Watcher to shreds. He tugged her more forcefully against his chest.

The front door of Revello Drive slammed open, followed by the sound of several bodies.

“Isaac, put the crossbow down!” Giles’s voice was knife’s edge sharp, cold and cutting.

“Rupert, your Slayer’s husband has been turned! And he’s in sunlight, though by what hellish device, I’ve no blasted earthly idea.” She heard a beat of hesitation, then he called out, “Miss Summers, if you can attempt to escape the beast’s grasp, I can–”

“You can get the hell away,” Faith’s voice jutted in. “He’s protecting B  _from you_ , jackass.”

There was a muttered incantation and then a startled curse, followed by the clatter of wood. “What the bloody hell!”

Buffy tapped Spike’s snarling chest. His eyes were amber and fixed murderously on Bowen over his shoulder. “Elly, turn around. I need to see.”

His gaze flicked back to her momentarily, then slid back to Bowen. He didn’t move a muscle.

“The crossbow is out of play, William. Let me see,” she whispered soothingly.

Spike just snarled more loudly and didn’t budge.

She sighed. “Giles?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Please get Bowen out of here before Spike murders him.”

“Indeed.”

“Get your hands off of me!” came Bowen’s indignant and appalled shout a moment later. There was a tense pause, then, “I can see why Quentin sent me. There is something entirely perverse here!”

Buffy felt her heart skip a beat as snatches of her Slayer dream floated back, in Kralik’s honeyed, skin-crawling voice.  _All they see is creatures like me. And you, married to me! Perverse, Slayer. That’s perverse._

“Isaac,” came Giles’s deadly voice, “you will either accompany me back to my flat or I will very happily let Buffy’s husband eat you.”

A pause.

“I’ll see that you’re given your cards before this day is out,” Bowen said finally, coldly.

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Faith, will you please accompany us?”

“You got it, Watcher man.”

Giles cleared his throat. “Buffy? We’re leaving now. I will… enlighten Isaac as to the state of Sunnydale.”

She didn’t miss the emphasis on  _Sunnydale_. There was no reason for him to know about her and Spike’s century of vacationing, or how they’d managed that feat. “Thank you.”

Spike unblinkingly watched the three bodies depart, an unceasing rumble emanating from his chest. Vaguely, she realized Spike had gone… well, not mute exactly, as her entire body was vibrating with his threats, but… a bit wild. Normally, he’d be spewing colorful curses, probably something with the word ‘wanker’ and the equivalent of threatening enough pain that Bowen’s ancestors would get heartburn. Or something. She was pretty sure he usually just made it up as he went along. Now, she wasn’t even certain he  _could_  speak.

“Elly? They’re gone. Let’s go inside.”

He simply nodded and strode abruptly inside the house, not loosening his hold an inch. He paused for a spare moment in the doorway, and she felt him tremble again. Then, with a snarl, he kept walking, sweeping her up the stairs and into the bathroom before anyone could comment. And there were plenty of others to comment – it looked like the entire Scooby gang was gathered in the living room. She could hear Dawn cry out in relief and disappointment as she was rushed past, but Spike didn’t so much as falter, his gaze fixed up the stairs.

“We’re okay, Dawnie,” Buffy managed weakly in passing. “Just give us a few.”

Spike slammed the bathroom door shut behind them, giving it a vicious kick. He glared at it for a moment after, as if daring it to open again, then cradled her gently as he turned the knobs on the tub.

“William, you can let me down now.”

He just growled at her.

Right. There was apparently no letting go of the Buffy. So she just let him do whatever he felt he needed to do. He didn’t shake off his game face for even a moment and she watched his ridges and yellowed eyes with sudden realization.

“It’s your demon driving right now, isn’t it?”

He looked at her silently for a moment, then went back to adjusting the water temperature.

She’d met Spike’s most primal inclinations a lot in the last century, but only really ever in passing. When he was angry, or frightened, or overcome with desire. But it was always reeled back in outside of the moment, in a way that continually astonished her. But not now.

“Do you think you can protect me better this way?”

He gave her another piercing, unreadable look.

She tried another tact. “Do you love me?”

This time he snorted slightly and lowered her gently to a standing position on the tile, starting to rip her clothes from her without ceremony.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

She’d never really thought much about Spike's hellish origins – about the demon itself who'd taken William's essence and blended it with its own. To her, the demon had just always been... Spike. This was the closest she'd probably ever come to seeing that piece alone, she considered, eyes scanning her husband's golden eyes as he held his humanity at bay.

Spike finished tugging off her clothes, a small whimper escaping him as he looked at her bare chest. They looked together, since Buffy hadn’t so much as glanced at it since coming back alive. She’d just run.

The wound looked weeks old instead of hours, almost a perfect cylinder over her left breast. It was red and angry, but didn’t gape, although she was pretty sure she was going to have a whopper of a scar for the rest of forever. Well, it wasn’t the only one. She grabbed one of Spike’s outstretched hands in her own and gave a slight squeeze. “I’m okay.”

Spike just growled and lifted her by her waist into the full tub. He cocked his head in question as she stood in the warm water.

“The temperature’s fine.”

He nodded and lowered her fully into the water in a reclining position, the liquid very thoughtfully still below her bullet wound. There was no question that getting it wet was probably going to hurt like a bitch.

“I really can do this myself, Elly.”

Spike growled at her. When he was satisfied that she was positioned appropriately, he stripped his own clothes away and slid into the tub directly behind her, his cock bobbing against the swell of her ass. Buffy leaned back against him with a sigh, moaning slightly as he brought her head back and down into the water. Once it was wet, he worked shampoo into a heavy lather into her shortened locks. They’d done this a million times before, usually after a particularly rough patrol, when her muscles were aching or they’d had a close call, and the familiarity made her almost want to cry in relief. Of course, Spike usually spoke to her when he did this, bits of poetry or literature, or some story from his years with the Scourge (the least horrible ones), or something one of their Bits had done that he was excited about. Now, he just rumbled a low, soothing purr, nuzzling the back of her neck.

“You really are a cat, you know that?”

He paused for a moment to growl indignantly. Then started purring again. She couldn’t help but giggle slightly, and his cock jerked against her.

When he leaned her back again to rinse, she sighed with exhausted pleasure, then held her breath anxiously as he started gently scrubbing her skin with a soapy washcloth. When his hand wandered near her chest, she let her breath out in a sharp hiss, wincing as it stung. Spike crooned in her ear, a sound brimmed with distress and comfortingly tones.

“I’m okay,” she rasped. Heck, she was alive, which was about a ten on a dead to doing back flips kind of scale. So far, this day was on a definite upswing. “But I’m going to pass out in here if we don’t move soon.”

Spike rumbled agreement and got her shuffled off to their bedroom a few minutes later. He carried her to the middle of the bed, then wrapped himself around her with such fierceness that it was kind of a miracle she could still breathe. But he wasn’t inclined to move, and she didn’t ask. She just murmured soft “I love you”s and tucked herself against him. And then she slept like the dead.

 

***

 

Buffy roused to the feeling of eyes on her and squinted awake in the dark, raising a brow as she met Spike’s ambered gaze, inches from her face. He was still protectively curled around her, cool and hard, and still undeniably in game face.

“Hi, lover.”

Spike nuzzled her head with a low purr, hands trailing down her body and lingering at her hips and breasts. When his fingers slipped between her legs to stroke her folds, she gave a small gasp and he paused, watching her intently.

“No, don’t stop.”

It had taken her years to become truly comfortable in bed with Spike’s vampire-ness, to appreciate the intimacy of biting and the sensuality of his animalistic side. And hers. But even before that, her body had never really been able to hide the fact that Spike’s demon side turned her on. Which was probably a million shades of screwed up, for a Slayer. Or maybe it was exactly as should be, with her own demon riding shotgun. After so many years, it didn’t really matter which it was – he was beautiful and wild and hers.

“Will you talk to me?”

Spike just rumbled lowly in his chest and shifted down her body, sliding in a tongue to make a lover’s refrain against her clit. Tickling heat consumed her belly.

“Oh-h. That works.”

He chuckled slightly, licking and nuzzling and nipping at her until her orgasm rose like a welcome inferno and left her panting and feeling alive and boneless. Much more boneless than usual. Apparently dying over and over again, time loop or no, took a lot out of a gal. The thought made her sit up and sigh after a minute. “We’d better go see the others. See our Bit.”

Spike gave a small sound of discontent, but released her with a small nip and slid to a stand.

By the time they made it back downstairs, it was almost midnight. Their living room looked almost eerily like it had down upon their arrival in May, with most of the crew sprawled asleep across the furniture and floor. Even Lawson was there, legs stretched out as he lounged against the far wall by the LP player. His eyes snapped open at their arrival, expression turning almost shockingly relieved and warm.

“General.”

His soft welcome stirred the others, and Buffy was surrounded in a Scooby group hug before she could nearly blink. Spike was tense behind her but didn’t move to intercept, even when Dawn nearly tackled her to the floor with heavy sobs, before Buffy steered them to the safer surface of couch. Eventually, Dawn gave Spike a funny look from where she’d nestled under Buffy’s arms. The vampire was firmly entrenched on Buffy’s other side, silently surveying the room.

“What’s with the permanent bumpies, Spike?”

Mathilde nodded approvingly in Spike’s direction. “He is protecting his mate.”

“Huh?”

Buffy shrugged. “Elly’s demon is sort of on high alert at the moment.”

Seeing Dawn’s continued confusion, Giles gave the youngest Summers an understanding smile. “It is, I believe, a stress response.”

“Kind of had one of those myself,” Xander said weakly. “Totally get where he’s coming from. Except without the whole vampire face thing.”

Willow, who was at the far end of the living room, winced and stared down at her feet. “I’m sorry, Buffy.”

Buffy shrugged. “You brought me back. Not saying it was… pretty, but you got the job done. Nothing to apologize for.”

Giles cleared his throat softly, looking suddenly grim and angry. “That’s not entirely accurate.”

Buffy stared between the gathered band, watching them all fall quiet. “I’m missing something.”

Albert met her gaze. “When Elly left to claim his vengeance, we traced the scent that lingered. Followed it to a sous-sol, yes?”

“A basement. Uh huh… And this basement was… special?”

Xander nodded, swallowing hard as he met Buffy’s eyes. “We went there, too, Buffy. Earlier today. It was their place – those three guys. Turns out it was Warren, and Jonathan, and some other guy.”

“Tucker’s brother, I think,” Willow added quietly, still looking at the floor.

The names shifted a memory.  _Know me? You ruined my life, bitch!_ Warren, the robot guy. Warren, whose girlfriend she had saved. Warren, who had killed her. Jonathan, the one who was sorry. Jonathan, who’d made her Sunnydale High’s class protector a lifetime ago. She still sort of remembered the umbrella. Well, that was ironic.

“Yeah,” Xander said, nodding his head. “Anyway. They left us a note – Jonathan and the other guy.”

“They left a stupid monologue,” Anya said with a huff. “Like one of those terrible cartoon villains who never know when to shut up.”

“It was an apology, Ahn.”

“A bad one.”

“And many tapes,” Albert added.

“Tapes?”

Faith leaned forward from where she was standing against the wall near the hallway, looking half-disgusted. “Of you, B. And Spike. And me. All kinds of places around town. Pretty freaky stuff.”

“Oh.” Buffy’s stomach turned. She and Spike had been under surveillance? God, what had happened to good, old-fashioned magic? “Okay, so we were… watched. What does that have to do with Willow?”

Willow looked up at last, her face pale and drawn. “Warren left writings. He was in Sunnydale w-when I time-travelled. It’s why he was obsessed with you. Wherever he went… it wasn’t pretty.”

“Define ‘not pretty.’”

“It appears,” Giles said softly, looking rather ill, “that the Buffy of that particular dimension was a slave.”

“Warren’s slave.”

“Yes.”

Spike snarled violently, causing everyone in the room to jump. He turned a furious gaze on Willow and the redhead shrank against the wall.

“I’m sorry!”

Buffy touched her husband’s arm firmly. “Spike, it’s done. It was horrible… and it’s done.” She felt suddenly exhausted again, as if she hadn’t just woken from sleeping away most of the day. And tomorrow was Thanksgiving, she remembered with a sort of shock.

There was so much she needed to tell them all, about Whistler and what was potentially coming. But all she wanted to do for now was crawl back into bed and wait for the throbbing pain in her chest to dwindle. So she gently kissed Dawn’s forehead and untangled herself to stand.

“We’ll do the holiday thing tomorrow, and it’s going to be great. But until then, I’m going back to bed.”

 

***

 

Thanksgiving morning found Spike still unwilling to let the demon fade to the background, and any unexpected movements left him snarling and shoving her safely behind him. Xander made the mistake of ringing the front door bell and Spike nearly snapped his neck. After that, they locked the front door for a while.

Still, it was a fairly successful Thanksgiving, even if Spike’s new inability (lack of desire?) to monitor the turkey left Giles muttering about ‘bloody Hellmouths and holidays’ while wearing a half apron and checking the roasting bird with a meat thermometer.

That afternoon, Giles pulled her aside in the kitchen while the others played charades in the living room. Spike eyed him suspiciously, but continued sipping his blood from a mug as he leaned against the counter.

“Buffy, I must ask…”

“Ask?”

The Watcher eyed her with grim uncertainty. “Were you in a heaven? Did Willow– did  _we_  pull you from there?” He swallowed, his expression deepening to something that looked like resignation. “You died… well, frankly, many times. I shudder to imagine what may have transpired on each cycle. And how many times we may have…” His voice trailed off.

Sympathetic understanding filled her. “No. Not heaven. Limbo, actually.”

Giles stared at her for a long minute, before settling on an expression of righteous anger. “Why those blasted  _pillocks_!” He tugged off his spectacles angrily. “You’re their Chosen One! You should have had a first class ticket.”

Buffy placed a placating hand on his shoulder, laughing slightly despite herself. “Giles, it’s okay. Whistler knew I likely wasn’t staying.”

Giles pulled his glasses back on. “I beg your pardon?”

She sighed. Her body felt less weary after her latest bout of sleep, but not by much. “It’s a long story.”

The Watcher gave the oven an evaluating look. “It appears I have at least another one hundred and twenty minutes.”

“That might just be long enough.”

When she’d recounted all that she could manage, Giles sagged against the counter with a weary sigh. “So we have a reoccurring enemy stirring up tidings of war, but no specifics regarding whom or when?”

“That about sums it up.”

“Bloody helpful, that is.”

Spike growled agreement from the stool.

Buffy eyed the ragged looking Watcher, a sinking suspicion eating at her. “How did things go with Bowen?”

A wry grimace graced his features. “Unpleasant. As you might imagine. I am certain he was on the phone to Quentin the moment Faith and I released him.”

“Whistler did seem to think the Council was going to be a part of the coming trouble. I guess it was inevitable, even before Willow’s spell.”

“So it seems,” Giles agreed in a soft murmur. “They are under the impression that we’ve all gone batty and joined in league with fell creatures.” A pause. “And the troublesome part is that I couldn’t exactly tell them they had it wrong.” He cleared his throat and looked down at the counter. “Quentin was kind enough to relieve me of my post again last evening. I do believe he enjoyed it even better the second time around.”

Buffy drew in a sharp, angry breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You have no reason to be.” Giles gave her a rueful smile. “It’s not as if unemployment has kept me from my duty in previous renditions.”

Spike set down his mug with unexpected strength and gave Buffy a long look, one she fully understood. His demon was in the driver’s seat, but it was clear that all parts of him were active and listening in the background. She fixed Giles with a determined, weary smile. “You’re not unemployed. Elly and I can cover your salary in full.”

Giles turned incredibly flustered. “Buffy, I couldn’t possibly–”

Spike snarled and fixed him with a narrow glare.

Giles gave the vampire a dry look. “That is to say, I would be honored.”

 

***

 

Thanksgiving came and went; and Willow went back to Paris, a bit more shaken than she’d arrived. Buffy wasn’t sure that Tara had said more than a dozen words to her the entire trip. Spike had simply looked like he wanted to murder her. The others were all uncomfortable. Between all that, Willow’s departure was somewhat of a relief.

“I know I have a lot to learn,” she told Buffy meekly, right before she left. “I didn’t… Buffy, I didn’t mean for any of this.”

“I know, Wil.” Buffy sighed and gave her a quick hug. “Just keep learning, okay? And thank you for bringing me back.”

Willow brightened a little and extended a shaky smile. “I didn’t do it for me, you know.”

“I know. It’s why I’m not mad.”

No matter the reasons, however, it didn’t stop the dreams. They swamped her almost nightly, visions of dark waves and drowning. Sometimes Spike was there, too, slipping under the waves before she could reach him. She’d dive and dive until her lungs gave out, but he was always lost in the dark. She woke up screaming his name.

Spike, for his part, just growled fiercely as she woke, as if verbal threats could scare the shadows into submission, and then he’d slide into her with abrupt determination, fast or slow or rough. Whatever he thought she needed at the time to still her frantic despair.

He didn’t bite her for several days after she died, which seemed like quite a feat for a possessive demon; but when she arched her neck to him with desperate need after four days, he sank in with an excited whine and sent them both off the edge.

After two weeks, Spike was still in game face and Buffy was still struggling with nightmares. They weren’t fun, but what was one more layer of PTSD on top of everything?

The front door was still locked.

Dawn tromped in the kitchen door with a sigh one afternoon after Xander dropped her off from school, giving Buffy the kind of self-suffering look only a fifteen-year-old could manage. “Are we ever going to use the front door again?”

Buffy sighed over her tea. “Give it time.”

“How much time?”

“Until the blood washes out of the porch concrete.”

Dawn stopped her tirade in a moment and her face dropped to pale. “Sorry,” she mumbled, fiddling with the edge of the kitchen counter. “I just… Spike’s not talking and you’re getting all shout-y at night and…”

Buffy was to her in a minute, tugging her sister into a tight hug. “It’ll be okay, Dawnie. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” At Dawn’s raised brow, she shrugged. “Had a lot of nightmares after the Master killed me. And I’ve had plenty in the century since then, for other reasons.”

“What about Spike?”

Buffy sighed. “Elly just needs time, too.”

 

***

 

A week later, Buffy woke to Spike’s cool lips tracing up her thigh, and what she imagined to be the murmur of his voice.

“Beautiful, wide-spread,” came the rumble, as his lips slid across her skin like teasing, luscious agony, “fire upon leaf.”

Her eyes drifted open, half afraid of the dream fading, but desperate see if the mirage was visible. Her gaze met lidded blue eyes.

Her breath caught.

“Elly?”

Spike grinned up at her from between her thighs. “What meadow yields so fragrant a leaf as your bright leaf?”

She couldn’t help but laugh, relief and love flooding through her. “You know how to make anything sound dirty.”

Spike chuckled. “It’s a gift, pet.” He waggled his brows. “And written by a woman, no less.”

“Of course. She’d know those parts best.” Buffy felt a lump rise in her throat. “I missed your voice, William.”

He watched her solemnly before kissing her clit, grinning at the whimper it wrung from her. “Knew you kept me around for more than my good looks.”

Buffy stuck out her tongue at him, unable to completely wipe away the silly smile on her lips. “Only sometimes.”

He growled playfully and prowled slowly up her body, his face heavy with intent. “Sometimes?”

“Mhmm.”

“I’ll show you sodding  _sometimes_ , you saucy minx,” he told her huskily, then captured her lips in his own, pressing her possessively into the mattress, letting his fingers trace down her ribs with casual, ticklish skill. She giggled even as moans trembled through her, creating terrible, mirthful havoc with her insides.

“Elly!”

Spike drew back and smirked, blue eyes dancing. “Change your tune yet, luv?”

Buffy met his gaze with as much composure as her body would allow. “Never.” A pause. “But maybe check back in a hundred years or so.”

Spike raised his scarred brow. “Yeah? And what do you propose we do until then?”

“Trying to prove me wrong sounds nice.”

Spike chuckled lowly, then bent to rest his lips on her neck. “Think I can manage that.” He drew out a deep sigh. “Love you so much, Buffy. Not been able to think straight lately.”

“I know.” She touched his cheek, encouraging him to meet her gaze. “I’ve been thinking… whenever we’ve taken care of whatever bad thing Whistler seems so concerned about, I’d like to take another holiday. A permanent one.”

Spike eyed her with clear surprise. “That a fact?”

“Yeah.” Buffy worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “Is that okay?”

A breath-stealing kiss was her only reply.


	24. Sunnydale-at-Large: The Other Side of the Coin

Giles regarded the phone in his hand with a mixture of trepidation and disappointment, finding himself quite unable to press it back into the receiver. Quentin Travers, for all his faults and vicious idiocies, wasn’t evil. He was selfish, bureaucratic, and positively deaf, blind, and dumb to new ideas, but not evil. However, he was terribly afraid. And it seemed that some approximation to evil could be wrought from that just the same.

Richard – one of the few of Giles’s now (again) ex-colleagues who would return his calls – had not born good tidings when he’d finally gotten around to ringing Giles back, several weeks after the original plea.

“What the hell are you doing over there, Rupert? Bowen’s report has brought the whole place to an uproar. Have you completely lost the plot?”

“I assure you, whatever Isaac has said isn’t–

“That Buffy Summers is in intimate relations with a soulless vampire, and that both of our Slayers are befriending evil demons?”

“Ah. Yes. Well.” Giles cleared his throat. “It’s not quite as it sounds. We’re… converting them.”

“We’re not a bloody missionary! The Slayers exist to  _slay_ demons, Rupert. Not to delude themselves with the idea that that redemption is even an option for wicked creatures. Evil can’t turn good; it doesn’t have the way.”

Giles smiled wryly into the phone. “Richard, I assure you that I have seen direct evidence to the contrary.”

There was a long silence.

“I wish that were true.”

“It is true.”

“Then why didn’t you tell anyone, old chap? It’s too late now, you know. Most of the Council is beside itself. Half of them are convinced you’ve all been taken over by some evil power.”

Giles winced, recalling his own poor and frightened response to Buffy’s assertions of her New World Order in May. It was appallingly true to acknowledge that he had briefly wondered the same. “Do you truly believe earlier honesty would have created a better outcome than this?” When silence met him, Giles sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Richard, there is a different world possible from what we’ve known. For heaven’s sake, we’ve catalogued how many species of harmless, sentient demons? What’s to say that there can’t be others persuaded that way?”

“Centuries of history, Rupert _. Millenia_ , even.” There was a heavy sigh. “Look, I think your… hopes are admirable. But all you’re really achieving is the surety of death for the Slayers.”

Ice dropped through Giles’s stomach and he clenched the phone with painful tightness. He felt the edges of Ripper seep into his voice. “I beg your pardon?”

“Hesitation,” Richard supplied. “They’ll hesitate and they’ll die.”

“Ah.” Giles took a deep, calming breath. “I assure you, they know better than that.” He winced, but added evenly, “They’ve both lived this long, haven’t they?”

Another pause, then Richard said, “I believe the Council is sending a team your way. To get this situation under control. I’ve heard tell of Quentin contacting outside… assistance.”

Giles felt a cold anger take hold again. “Exactly what kind of  _assistance_ is that twat recruiting?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I believe their intention is to, ah, cleanse whatever madness has taken hold of you all.” Before Giles could interject, Richard added, “I’m sorry, but that’s all I know. I have to go, Rupert. Ta ta.”

And then the line went dead, and Giles was left staring at the telephone as it blared its absurdly headache-inducing dial tone. He might’ve stood there all evening if not for Faith’s entrance into the living room.

“You alright there, G-man?”

Irritation allowed him to place the phone back into its appropriate hold. “Really, Faith, must you replicate that ridiculous nickname?”

His Slayer smirked and flung herself carelessly onto the couch. “Got your attention, didn’t it?” At his clear exasperation, she nodded at the phone. “So what’s up with the staring contest? I know you’re technology challenged and all, but I’m pretty sure you have to actually dial to get voices on the other side.”

He pursed his lips. “Despite what you may believe, I am neither technologically incompetent nor a Neanderthal.”

“Me-ow. What crawled up your ass tonight?”

Giles sighed and slumped into the desk chair, rubbing his temples. “The portents in your and Buffy’s Slayer dreams seem to be coming to fruition with alarming acuity.”

Faith sat up abruptly, her smirk fading into tight worry. “Shit.” Her eyes flickered to the phone. “So that was the Council?”

“One of my few remaining contacts from there, yes.” Giles grimaced and poured himself a generous glass of scotch from the waiting decanter. “It seems they are creating partnerships with some entity they desire to supervise our, ah, efforts.”

They were both silent for a long moment, both of them knowing exactly what was unsaid: _And destroy anything deemed unsavory._ The fact of Buffy’s marriage, for one, was certainly an aberration unlikely to be overlooked. Or accepted.

Finally, Faith snorted, looking angry and defiant. “Because that’s always worked so well for them before.”

Giles couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at his lips. “Indeed.” His amusement faded. “I would not take this situation lightly, however. If the Powers themselves are worried, it is likely we are headed toward unpleasant waters.”

Faith regarded him with a level of gravity he hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing from her often before – at least unguarded by sarcastic bravado. Now, however, she looked every inch the grave and mature Slayer. “We’ll handle it, Giles. Whatever it is.”

He saluted her with his scotch glass, a wry grimace touching his lips. Once, he had lamented being saddled with such strong-willed Slayers. Now, he realized, it was a stroke of the finest fortune. “I have no doubt that you will,” he said softly. “No doubt at all.”

 

***

 

Tara found Dawn on the living room couch, stubbornly flicking through channels with the sound blaring. It was hurting her ears, but it was something of a relief all the same. She raised a brow.

“Would you like some company?”

Dawn glanced up at her with a wicked teenage smile. “I’m way too young for you, you know.”

“Dawn!” Despite herself, Tara blushed and then abruptly settled herself on the couch with a wry smile. Though Buffy and Spike would never have children of their own, it was almost funny to realize that the youngest Summers seemed like a perfect blend of the two immortals.

“Just kidding,” Dawn said more seriously. A pause. “We can all tell you’re still waiting for Willow, you know.”

That drew Tara up short and she knew her spine had stiffened painfully. Just the mention of Willow did the most uncomfortable things to her insides, making them roil all hot and cold at once. It was almost how a spell gone wrong felt, which made her all the more uneasy “I-I don’t…”

Dawn gave her a long look and then rolled her eyes in an almost perfect imitation of her sister. “Oh, geez. Like it wasn’t obvious. You guys were all moony and avoidy and stuff at Thanksgiving.”

Tara swallowed roughly, picking at the quilt resting on the back of the couch. Dawn wasn’t wrong, and that was perhaps the hardest realization to swallow. What did it say about her, that – after everything – she was still desperately in love with the woman whose selfishness and ignorance had ended up with Buffy’s murder? Willow’s desire to overcome her mistakes seemed genuine and passionately pursued, but… Goddess, it wasn’t Willow she didn’t trust. It was herself. She had let it get so far and away, and done so little to stop it. Love had made her stupid, and she wasn’t sure how to be in love without getting that way again. “I d-don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know how to move forward,” she said finally, barely heard over the TV.

Dawn just shrugged. “You’ll figure it out. Spike got over being evil, and he’s a demon. I’m pretty sure Willow’s got a head start on the whole ‘not being stupid’ thing.” A pause. “If Buffy can deal with him being an ex-serial killer, I’m pretty sure you guys will deal with ex-stupid Willow-ness.”

Tara found herself entirely speechless at that. “How in the world did you get so smart, Dawnie?”

Dawn smirked at her. “Ancient key.”

Tara raised a brow. “Had lots of dating experience during that time, did you?”

Dawn blushed and fidgeted with the remote. “No.”

Tara knew that motion. It was almost exactly how she’d acted when she’d fallen in love for the first… “Oh goddess. Dawn, do you have a boyfriend?”

Dawn’s eyes grew wide as saucers and she glanced toward the staircase with clear panic. “Shhh! If Spike hears about it, he’ll scare him away!”

Tara fought an amused smile and lost. “Dawnie, if Spike can hear anything outside of the bedroom right now, I’ll swear off magic for a year.”

As if on cue, a high-pitched moan filtered from the upstairs, followed by a series of very masculine growls. The floor shook slightly.

Dawn wrinkled her nose and turned up the TV another notch. “God. I thought he wasn’t all wild anymore.”

Tara giggled despite herself. “Different kind of wild.”

“Ugh.”

“So tell me about this boy.”

Dawn gave her a shy smile. “His name is Antonio… but we all call him Ant.”

Tara smiled encouraging and settled herself more comfortably on the couch to listen to Dawn’s teenage rambling, both women firmly ignoring the rhythmic thumping emanating from the second floor.

 

***

 

Almost against his better judgment, Riley Finn found himself driving back in the city limits of Sunnydale, California. He glanced over uneasily to where Sam, his newlywed wife, was curiously examining the passing main streets. His  _wife_. The word was still strange on his tongue, but it filled him with a kind of giddy excitement. This was what he’d needed. What he wanted since forever. Of course, until the last year, he’d thought the other name on the marriage certificate was going to be Buffy Summers. Until their entire relationship went down the drain, where he let it go, and she didn’t even try to stop it. He’d just been fooling himself to think she’d ever really been his. There was only a tinge of bitterness left at that thought nowadays. Sam was an incredible woman. Strong and kind and traditional where it mattered.

“Cute little place,” Sam offered with a thoughtful smile. “Hard to believe there’s a big Hellmouth buried under here.”

“Yeah.”  _And a lot more than that._  Riley swallowed and kept his eyes on the road.

“So,” Sam said with bright eagerness, “we’re heading to find the famous Vampire Slayer.” She paused, brow furrowed. “Well, one of them? There are two now, right?”

Riley managed to restrain a wince. “Yep. Two of them.”  _And I’ve slept with them both_ , he thought, with a strange mix of pride and unease. Since they were both in Buffy’s body during the encounters, he wasn’t really sure if it even counted that he’d slept with Faith. Seriously, how the hell was he supposed to know that switching bodies was even a possibility? Buffy had acted like he should’ve been a mind reader or something. God, he’d loved her so much, but she had the most unreasonable expectations for a guy. Guess that was what came from trying to follow in the footsteps of a centuries-old, mass-murdering vampire. The thought made his lip curl and he squeezed Sam’s hand with abrupt enthusiasm.

“You’re perfect, you know that?”

Sam blushed and beamed at the praise. “You’re not so bad yourself, soldier.”

Riley turned back to survey the road, taking a deep breath as he turned onto Revello Drive. He could do this. Despite their rocky end and Buffy’s questionable love history, it was obvious she needed him.

The email had been a shock. A full-scale call for ex-Initiative members to help protect the Vampire Slayers from the demons in Sunnydale. No killing restrictions on the supernatural population. Force encouraged. Signed as a partnership with the Watcher’s Council for the Slayers, no less. Had things really gotten that out of hand on the Hellmouth since he’d gone? The city still looked mostly the same, but it was daylight, and daylight always lied.

Riley pulled to a stop in front of 1630 Revello Drive. Whatever was going on, he was going to make sure Buffy was safe. He owed that to her. And maybe she’d– Riley cut that thought short. No, he had Sam now. And Sam was amazing.

But maybe it didn’t hurt that Buffy would get to see exactly what she was missing.

Taking a deep breath, Riley smiled at his wife. “Ready to go meet a legend?”


	25. Incitation

Buffy was just getting dressed (well, dressed  _again_  – seeing as Spike had already rid of her first two outfits of the day) when the doorbell rang. They’d finally unlocked the front door, but the Scoobies and extended crew still knew better than to use it (and Xander was pretty much put off from using the front door for the rest of forever since the whole ‘nearly got his neck snapped’ incident). Which meant it wasn’t anyone they knew.

Spike stiffened with a growl, eyes flashing gold.

“Elly.”

He gave her a swift look and pulled a blue t-shirt over his head. “Stay here.”

That was Spike’s condition for not bricking in the entire front porch – she had promised not to go anywhere near it. Probably for forever. She and Xander could make a  _never using the front door again_  club. She was entirely sure there was a joke about back doors in there somewhere. And, in all fairness, Spike had a very nice back door (a thought that would have mortified her a century ago, but now was just another feature of her beautiful lover who was happy to give every piece of himself over to her – and his – pleasure. Still, it didn’t mean she was going to go around saying it aloud).

Spike halted abruptly as he made to exit the bedroom, lifting a brow with a slight leer as he turned back to her. “Something striking your fancy, pet?” His nostrils flared tellingly.

Buffy laughed helplessly. “Go see who’s here.”

He crossed his arms and leaned casually in the doorway as the front doorbell rang again. The other household occupants knew better than to answer it. “Think I want to know what’s occupying my wife first.”

Damn him. He could ignore the door forever, but they both knew it would drive her insane. “I’ll show you tonight,” she said softly. When he didn’t budge, she added, “We’ll need the lube.”

Spike’s expression turned smoldering. “That so.”

The doorbell rang again, and she huffed. “Just answer the damn door, William.”

He winked at her and whirled into the hallway, leaving her with the echo of his low laughter. Shaking her head, she straightened her shirt, determined that this set of clothes would make it longer than an hour.

It might be a record this week, if it did.

Always hypersexual compared to the general populace, Buffy’s death experience had awoken a kind of ferocious desperation she couldn’t remember feeling since 1880, when they both thought a precious week was all the lovemaking they’d get before heading back to Sunnydale. Even though they’d spent a century knowing and fearing one of them would be gone one day, it didn’t change the reality of the situation.

And the reality was that no amount of imagining could ever have prepared them for the real thing.

At least not staying dead seemed to be an across-dimensions Buffy trait. Her own words to Other!Buffy came back to haunt her with stern abruptness. _You’ll never be pre-death Buffy again._  No, she mused, she wouldn’t. Was there a Slayer anti-death wish out there? If so, she had it. Now more than ever. Funny how a long life would make her want to live more – her of the once insistent deathwish. No, that wasn’t quite right. Living was fine and dandy, and she’d enjoyed her unusual allotment, but it was really Spike she wanted. She wanted him for eternity, and the realization that they didn’t have it had suddenly settled upon them both. Chances were good that soulless vampires didn’t go to heavenly dimensions, no matter how good they’d been for a century.  _Maybe I’ve murdered enough that I’ll be downgraded,_ she mused.  _Maybe we can both end up in the same lesser hell._ It was probably a terrible sign that the thought made her feel better.

Sighing, she made her way into the hall, pausing as she heard Spike’s growl from the front door.

“Get the bloody fuck off my porch!”

Salesman? Councilman? Angel? Interest piqued, Buffy strode to the top of the stairs. Even from her awkward vantage point, she could see that every muscle in Spike’s back was stiff with mistrust and anger as he faced their visitor.

“What the hell are you doing here, Spike? Where’s Buffy!” The man – because their visitor was obviously a guy – sounded strangely familiar. And he obviously knew them.

Frowning, she slipped down the stairs. “Elly? What’s going on? Who’s here?”

Spike growled again, though she could tell by the set of his shoulders that he’d heard her. He glanced back, eyes flickering amber, and stepped aside to reveal… someone.

The man looked up at her with relieved surprise. “Buffy.”

Buffy just stared at him. Did she know a guy with a huge facial scar? He was tall and bulky, built like a human version of Angel. His attire was disturbingly military. For one incredibly long moment, she thought she had an SS soldier at her door (and  _that_  would have certainly warranted Spike’s greeting). Then something clicked, and a hundred memories flooded through her. “Oh. Riley Finn.”

Well, not SS. Initiative. Possibly not much better.

Spike’s face was tight, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “That’s it. We’re bricking in the bloody door. Nothing good ever comes through it.”

Despite herself, Buffy laughed. “Then they’ll just come through the back door, Elly.”

“Bugger.”

Riley looked between them with sudden confusion, obviously wondering at their banter. Had she bantered with Spike in his presence back then? It had sounded just like insults, once upon a time, her denial-girl brain carefully ignoring the sexually tense undercurrent. Buffy’s lips quirked in memory. Charles had put an end to that denial with nothing more than a few well-placed words and a smirk. The cad.

Riley cleared his throat. Loudly. When Buffy’s gaze snapped back to the present, she was met with a smile that her long-ago boyfriend clearly intended to be warm. “Hey, Buffy. It’s been a minute.”

 _You have no idea._  “A minute,” she agreed, making her way down the last of the stairs. Dawn and Tara were sitting on the living room couch, obviously listening intently, but not moving. The tv, which she knew had been blaring a few minutes ago, was now suspiciously muted. As she passed, Dawn wrinkled her nose toward the door, with a clear  _What is_ he _doing here?_  look.

That was a very good question.

Buffy raised a brow toward her visitor. “Didn’t you leave Sunnydale?”

Riley looked nonplussed for a long moment, before his expression drifted to worry. He threw Spike a suspicious and threatening look. “Did you… forget?”

She felt her metaphorical hackles rise at the implication. “No. It’s just that you’re here. Now.”

“Oh. Right.” Riley cleared his throat, glancing to the side. “Actually _, we’re_  here.”

“He’s got a chit with him,” Spike supplied abruptly. “Dunno her.”

The woman in question slid into view, waving slightly. She looked Bosnian, all square jawed, with brown hair and big lips. “Hey. I’m Sam.”

“She reeks of soldier-boy,” Spike added.

Riley regarded him blackly. “I’m pretty sure I can find a piece of wood with your name on it, hostile.”

Buffy stiffened, a rush of anger racing through her on the heels of memory. A plastic stake, she recalled. He’d once stabbed Spike with a fucking plastic stake. Out of all the memories of her long-ago boyfriend, that was one of the strongest. She’d traced the scar over her husband’s heart a thousand times over the years, with her fingers and lips and tongue. It was a scar that now matched her own. “Riley, I don’t have any idea what you’re doing here, but if you threaten my husband again, I’ll send you back to wherever in pieces.”

The chill promise in her voice made Riley startle, then he blinked dumbly at her. “… Husband?”

“That’s right, Cardboard,” Spike told him as he showed off his left hand, with a slight smirk that made Buffy roll her eyes. Apparently a century hadn’t dampened his need to rub salt in the wounds of her exes. “Buffy and I are married.”

She thought she might’ve been able to hear a pin drop under Riley’s shell-shocked look. The reveal was old hat at this point, so Buffy just sighed and impatiently waited for him to recover.

Unexpectedly, it was Sam who spoke up first. “How nice! We’ll have to compare ceremonies.” When the other three stared at her, she shrugged sheepishly. “What? I don’t get to do the girl thing much.”

Riley just squinted at Buffy, as if unsure if she was real or not. He looked slightly sick and more than mostly distrustful.  _Join the club, neo-Nazi._  Finally, he shook his head. “Well, I guess… congratulations are in order.” He glanced at Sam and schooled his expression into neutrality. “Doesn’t really matter for what… Doesn’t matter. We’re here to help.”

Well, that was unexpected. Even Spike looked taken aback.

“Um… help? Help with what?”

Riley’s expression shifted toward proud. “Heard you’ve been overrun. We could’ve waited for the formal contingent to arrive, but,” his face softened, “thought you might appreciate getting some assistance sooner.”

Huh?

Spike was watching him with narrow bewilderment. “What the sodding hell do you think we’ve been overrun by, exactly?”

Now it was Riley’s turn to look confused. “Hostiles…”

Buffy’s insides turned cold. “I think you’d better come inside.”

While the words were semi-welcoming, her tone was not, and Riley frowned at her. She’d probably never taken that tone with him a century ago – too worried about chasing him away. It was a strange realization now, to look back at that woman and see how young and tired and unlucky in love she’d been. So determined to compromise herself in all the wrong ways so that someone might not leave her.

Her eyes landed on Spike, who was watching her carefully, looking for any silent instructions. Her left arm. Her partner. Her love.

She suddenly felt incredibly sorry for that girl, so long ago. And, strangely, for Riley, too, who hadn’t been able to be the partner either of them needed. “Please, come in,” she amended more gently, moving aside to let them in.

Riley and Sam stepping into the living room caused another small kerfuffle, as Tara and Dawn awkwardly stared at them.

“Hey, Dawnie,” Riley said with a semi-forced grin.

“Riley.” Dawn gave him a cool look. “You suck, you know that?”

Spike somehow managed to look reprimanding, although Buffy could see his eyes hiding laughter. “Bit.”

Dawn lifted her chin. “He murdered Ant’s cousin.”

Tara looked at Riley and Sam semi-apologetically. “I’m sure it wasn’t  _him_ , specifically, Dawn.”

Dawn continued to glare. “Could’ve been.”

Buffy traded a look with her husband. They’d met the shy Ano-movic teen a few times; a figure Dawn had been clearly trying to pass off as a friend. The youngest Summers apparently forgot her sister and Spike had been dealing with love-struck teenagers for a century.

Riley’s jaw was clenched tight, and he looked a bit helpless. Sam touched his arm and gave Dawn a compassionate look. “I’m sorry for your friend. We only take down dangerous hostiles in our current work. We keep people safe.”

Riley winced unexpectedly at that and Buffy felt herself go back on alert. “I think I’d like to hear a little bit more about what you’re doing here.”

Riley met her eyes squarely. “My team received the call.”

“Call?”

“International call of distress for the supernatural. Most governments around the world have one in place.” He sighed. “It appears to have originated from partners of the British government – those aligned with the warriors called the Slayers.”

“ _Bloody buggering fuck!_ ” Spike’s face nearly vamped as he snarled. “Sodding Council wankers.”

Buffy took a deep breath. Damnit. Hadn’t she told Giles politics were dangerous? Isaac Bowen may not have been much of a field Watcher, but she was sure he’d put his political wetworks experience to good use, if this was any indicator. Crap crap crap.

“I want the full report,” she said sharply.

Riley blinked at her military expression, eyes widening. She watched his back straighten. “We were told the Hellmouth had been overrun and to provide all available assistance clearing….” He paused, his eyes flicking between Spike and Dawn, “clearing out all supernatural entities.”

Dawn’s voice was a screech. “ _All?!_ ”

Spike snarled. “The Slayers are supernatural, you useless tosser.”

Riley shrugged. “We were told that the Slayers were to be protected.”

Her insides turned to ice. “But no one else.” She looked meaningfully at Spike. “They’ll stake you without a second thought.”

Spike’s face turned hard as granite. “They can try.”

Riley sighed. “They will. Try, that is.”

Spike raised a brow. “Figured you’d sound happier about that fact.”

Riley seemed to struggle with himself for a long moment. “Whatever’s going on here,” he murmured finally, “it’s apparently not what we’ve been told it is. I’m not really interested in being led around by the nose again. Dr. Walsh did that well enough the last time.”

Her estimation of Riley cranked up a notch. Well, it was good to know her previous taste in men hadn’t been one hundred percent god awful, even if Riley had cheated on her with vamp hos toward the end. “I’ll tell you exactly what’s going on around here,” she said firmly, “but you have to promise to keep an open mind.”

Riley gave her a lop-sided smile. “Buffy, I always have to be on my toes around you.”

 

***

 

Buffy was doing the dishes after a semi-awkward dinner, Spike rather grudgingly entertaining Sam in the living room as Riley hovered by the kitchen island. He’d taken meeting Albert and Mathilde mostly well – almost better than she’d thought. It was easy to forget he didn’t really see much difference between Spike and any other vampire, in all the ways good and ill.

As Buffy rinsed a plate, Riley stepped into her line of vision with a somewhat bitter smile. “Guess you weren’t kidding.”

“Huh?”

“That you’d date Spike if you wanted someone supernatural.”

Had she said that? How… right. She washed a handful of silverware with a shrug. “I guess I just took my own advice.”

“Yeah.” He paused, his eyes clearly going to her neck, where she’d drawn up her hair to do the dishes. “I see you went in my footsteps, too.”

She dropped the silverware abruptly back into the sink and threw him a chill look. “What Spike and I do is nothing like that.”

Riley pursed his lips, but said nothing; instead grabbing a towel to dry the dishes. “Okay.” He paused and gave her a searching look. “Is it just my imagination or is Spike… tan?”

Buffy snorted. “It’s a spell. Keeps the sun from burning him.”

“Jesus. Better keep that away from the other vamps.”

“It’s not something that can really be replicated.”

“Good.”

They didn’t speak for a long moment, then Riley said softly, “So, Sam…”

“Seems great,” Buffy finished. And she did. The woman was wholesome and a little weirdly hero-worship-y and obviously someone who could take care of herself.

“Yeah. She’s great.” A pause. “I’d say she reminds me of you, but…”

“But?”

“You seem different, Buffy. And I noticed the vampires called you ‘General’. Weird nickname.”

“A lot has happened since you’ve been gone.” And geez, she couldn’t even remember anymore exactly  _when_  he’d gone. Before her mother died, for sure. Was it before they knew about Glory, or after?

Riley took the next rinsed dish from her. “I’m surprised Spike doesn’t care that I’m in here with you.”

Buffy could barely keep from laughing at that. “We’ve been together for a while, Riley. He may not like you, but he trusts me.” She wondered if he had any idea how much more like the hundred men she’d killed he was than anything else. Just one more soldier in a long line.

“So,” Riley cast her a sideways look, “what are you thinking of doing about the troops set to arrive?”

Buffy felt her lips quirk into a smile. “They want a besieged town. They’ll get a besieged town.”


	26. Sunnydale-at-Large: Incitation

Riley couldn’t sleep. The motel bed sheets were stiff and dragged across his skin, catching slightly on the scars that latticed his shoulders and chest. Definitely not the worst place he’d slept in the past year, but that wasn’t saying much. Still, normally, he’d be able to drift off after a few tries, using standard breathing techniques to clear his mind. Except tonight his mind was filled with Buffy.

She looked as beautiful as he remembered, even with her hair chopped short. And what was with that, anyway? She’d never seemed like the kind of girl who went for the semi-tomboy look. She was always full of pink-painted nails and adorable nose scrunches and perky pony tails. He’d loved that about her, that she was always ultra girly, even after a night of hunting demons. Well, some of them, anyway.

Turned out she still screwed some of them instead.  _Married_  them. His stomach roiled with the thought. He hated Angel with a passion, but at least the guy had the strong and dark type thing going on. Spike was… well, he was a fucking idiot. Loudmouthed and crass and…

He made her laugh. Riley’d nearly dropped his fork at dinner when Buffy had burst into peals of laughter over something the moron had said. She’d giggled in his presence plenty when they’d been dating – soft, mischievous little peals – but nothing like this. She sounded… happy. He’d never realized until today how much the Buffy he’d known had always been on edge. Of course, he’d pretty much figured it out by the time he’d left, but he’d thought she was just closed off toward  _him_.

Apparently not.

A year had done a lot to her. She watched her surroundings with a fierce surety that was familiar, but way intensified from what he’d remembered. Even the way she spoke now was a bit different, with references to some things even he had no idea about, and lacking a lot of the ditzy exclamations that had irregularly and very uncomfortably reminded him of their small age gap. He’d never taken her for an airhead – there was no one with a faster mind in battle – but she’d still always been a bit spacy when she wasn’t playing Slayer. The Buffy of now seemed way past that, and he found himself almost irrationally jealous that – of all possible guys – it was  _Spike_  who had been there to watch it happen.

And though he was loath to admit it, whatever had taken place in the past year had left its mark on Spike, too. The vamp always been infuriatingly twitchy, nearly bouncing. Riley wanted to rip his head off on most occasions. Now Spike just sprawled with strange ease, like some lion in the sun. And when the two men’s eyes had met over the dining room table, it’d been unnerving as hell. The chip had done a good job of cowing the vamp, to the point where he had always been the first to look away, to his clear and helpless fury. Not anymore. It could be because Buffy was now protecting his scrawny ass full-time, but Riley’s instincts were screaming otherwise. He had the sick feeling that Spike no longer had a chip.

But if he didn’t, why was he drinking pig’s blood and playing nice when he could’ve been getting the revenge Riley knew he wanted? Fuck, what the hell were the _other_  two vampires doing there?

It was a city-wide affliction, apparently. For one reason or another, Buffy was trying to tame the demon population of Sunnydale.

“Not all of them, mind you,” she’d said with a slight smile. “There are plenty out there that just want to ‘grr argh,’ because they’re either stupid or…” she paused and shrugged. “No, actually, stupid about covers it, one way or the other.”

“So, a kind of modification project. Like the Initiative.”

That earned him a black glare.

“No,” she bit out, “it’s a free society.”

Riley surveyed her calmly. “But you kill them if they don’t follow the rules.”

“They’re usually pretty intent on killing me, at that point. And anyone who doesn’t like it here can leave. There’s a lot of Slayer-free real estate. The stupid ones we get here are either determined to down a Slayer or end the world. Sometimes both.”

Riley turned in the motel bed with a slight sigh, glancing at Sam’s peacefully sleeping form. His wife had taken the whole situation with almost weird enthusiasm. He forgot sometimes that Sam didn’t have his history with the supernatural. She’d been a normal woman with the Peace Corps before her group was nearly slaughtered. 

To Riley’s chagrin, he’d found Spike and Sam chatting quite animatedly in the living room about Peru once he’d finished talking with Buffy in the kitchen. They were discussing, of all things, the best restaurant in Lima.

“El Chinito’s fine, pet,” Spike was saying vehemently, “but Chez Wong’s the place you want to go. Wong’s an old bastard, but it’ll be the best meal you’ll have for years.”

Buffy snorted, coming up to join them. “Oh god, you got him on Chez Wong? I swear, if the guy weren’t like sixty, I’d be seriously worried Spike would leave me for him.”

The vampire grinned and winked. “Yeah, good thing ol’ Wong’s too young for my blood.”

It was one of a dozen apparent inside jokes that left Riley more than bemused. Luckily, Tara took pity on him. The blonde girl had always been nice enough, if a bit quiet. He’d mentioned Willow early in the evening, thinking it was going to be a good icebreaker, but that’d just made her clam up more, with a mumbled, “She’s in Europe.”

That was a shame. He’d really liked Willow.

Now, in the living room, Tara shyly caught his gaze. “That’s an impressive scar, agent Finn.”

Riley laughed. “Just care of some nester demons that had been living in the walls of village huts. Turns out that they didn’t like me setting them on fire much.”

Dawn turned from where she was listening to the other three, giving him a dirty look. It made his gut clench. He and Dawn had always gotten along okay before.

“Your sister and Spike still kill a lot of demons,” he said evenly, with a touch of annoyance.

“It’s the only way to kill nesters,” Spike added lazily. “With fire. Nasty buggers.”

Riley blinked at the unexpected support. Spike was defending him?

It had been a weird night.

And now he was stuck in a crappy motel unable to make sense of much of anything. The Slayers’ own support group was apparently against their whole pet project and – in a severe misuse of emergency resources – was now going to be responsible for sending international military to the Hellmouth. Including himself.

Bitterness tugged at him. It wasn’t like he could just tell them all to go to hell. Well, he could, but then he’d be left without a job or recommendation. And since Maggie’s nice little science experiment in his chest, he had to get bi-monthly check-ups, and was on a dozen meds he didn’t even know how to spell.

God, he really missed the simple ease of "see demon, kill demon." Buffy always had a way of turning his life upside down.

He nearly jumped when Sam’s hand brushed his shoulder.

“Can’t sleep?” Her sleepy eyes watched him fondly.

“No,” he admitted. “A lot on the brain.”

“There’s a lot to chew over.” Sam laughed lowly. “I can see why you were so head over heels, Finn. Buffy’s something else, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “she is.” He sighed. “I’m think of calling Colonel Paulson in the morning.”

“To tell him about the situation.”

“It’s… it might change something.”

Sam regarded him steadily. “Maybe.”

“You don’t think so.”

His wife shrugged. “I think that anybody with enough clout to send half the world’s secret supernatural forces to this tiny town isn’t likely going to care about what we have to say.”

Riley let his head fall back against his pillow with a heavy thump. “I know. But I have to try.”

“And what happens when they don’t listen? Buffy’s not going to like us very much if we start killing the natives, not to mention her husband.”

Riley gave a rueful smile. “Last year, I would have loved to have done that deed.”

“Not anymore, huh?”

“Weirdly… no.”

Sam landed a soft peck to his lips. “You’re a good man, Rye.”

He returned the kiss, but didn’t answer. The inevitably of it was staring him in the face. A good little tin soldier. Spike had called him that tonight, with a sardonic lift of his brows. It had rankled – he’d come to Buffy in good faith, come back to Sunnydale just to help her. And okay, he’d hoped for some credit and maybe a nice showing of regret from Buffy about letting him go, but was all just a bonus to actually helping out.

But then, it hadn’t been Buffy who had requested his help in the first place. Not that she ever had.

Riley drew out a deep breath. Damnit. Spike wasn’t allowed to be right.

Except that he was. No matter Riley’s intentions, he was going to be back to fighting for a cause he didn’t believe in. And he didn’t want to see Buffy’s face when she realized he had to hurt what she held most dear.

 

***

 

The crew was all gathered in Giles’s apartment. Faith was surveying Riley Finn from the corner near the kitchen. He was as hunky as she remembered. He hadn’t even known who she was at first, until she leaned in against his ear with a low purr.

“Shame you’re taken, big boy. I seem to remember you being a nice ride.”

Hey, she was reformed, not a fucking saint. And it was a serious kick to watch his confusion melt into shocked realization. He’d been watching her out of the corner of his eyes since, and there was no doubt that he thought she was hot. Too bad she’d never gotten to take him on in her own body. Oh, well.

Buffy just watched the exchange with a roll of her eyes. Once, the situation would have been tense enough to cut with a freaking knife, but a hundred years seemed to have erased the animosity from her sister Slayer. Good thing it was the soldier and not Spike she’d screwed. Faith had the distinct feeling she’d still be rotting in her cell if that had gone down.

Still, it was a shame B was the only one that was getting in the vamp stamina action. Faith had been keeping her eyes on Lawson, but he was going all mother hen on the fledges, making him a damn hard guy to get alone. Not that she hadn’t tried. Good thing Thomas was due back soon. He was no vamp, but that bit of demon in him made him way hardier than any human guy she’d had. And he was a tiger in the sack.

With difficulty, she turned her thoughts away from images of Thomas’s assets and back to the room, and the weird dynamic that had set up.

To everyone’s shock and Faith’s amusement, Giles had greeted Riley with a solid punch to the face.

“Riley Finn,” was Giles’s cold greeting, as he shook out his probably bruised knuckles.

“Jesus, Giles, nice way to greet a guy.” Riley held a hand to his nose, with a confused glare.

“Your previous actions may have been forgiven by Buffy, but I assure you they haven’t been forgiven by me.”

Riley’s eyes had flicked worriedly to his wife’s. Well, that was interesting. Just what had soldier boy gotten himself into in the past?

It’d been a strained room since then. Xander had been sitting on the edge of his seat, nearly chatting Riley’s ear off, with Buffy and Sam keeping with what looked like civil conversation to the side. Tara, Spike, and Anya had congregated by Faith near the kitchen, clearly staying out of the mix. Giles was determinedly killing a bottle of scotch not far away.

Eventually, though, they’d gotten down to business, which was pretty much a summary of the million ways the world was trying to fuck them over. Not much new there.

“I called my commander to tell him we had the situation wrong, but… no dice,” Riley was saying softly. His shoulders slumped. “The initial crew will probably get here around the first of the year.”

“Nothing says ‘new year on the Hellmouth’ like gun happy commandos,” Xander said with forced brightness. “Think they’ll wear some little hats? You know, just to keep it festive when they start trying to kill everybody.”

Anya sat up straight as a board, her face paling. “So you’re the enemy again? You’re going to kill me?” She looked pleadingly at Buffy. “Make him leave!”

Buffy turned to give Riley a hard look. “Well?”

Riley stared blankly at her. “Well, what?”

“Is Anya right? Are you the enemy?”

Riley looked uneasy. “I don’t want to be.”

Faith shifted against the wall with a snort. “Wanna try that again, but with some spine this time?”

Spike flashed her a vicious grin. “It’s pretty simple, White Bread,” he said lowly from beside his wife. His body was sitting coiled, as if he thought Riley was going to attack at any second. “You choose to not be the sodding enemy.”

Sam shook her head. “It’s not that easy.”

Buffy shrugged, calm and grim as a saint. “You two do what you have to. We’ll do the same.” She glanced at Anya, her face growing colder. “But Anya’s right. If you’re not here to help us, you both need to leave.”

Faith raised a brow and waited as the commando couple regarded each other tightly.

 

***

 

Amanda was on her way to a demon bar. She hadn’t even been to a real human bar yet, so this was probably like skipping three steps on the staircase, but she was definitely not going to complain, especially when the brunette Slayer Barbie was taking her there.

“Do you think Mr. British is ever coming back?”

Faith barked a laugh, grinning. “Pretty sure he’s not welcome around these parts anymore, mini-me.”

“Good.” He wasn’t welcome at her house, either; not since he’d tried to convince her parents that they should let her go to “boarding school” in England. Uh, way not happening, buddy. Between a bunch of stuffy old farts and two kick-ass Barbie warriors, she’d totally take the warriors.

Faith looked at her sidelong as they paused outside of some dingy craphole called Willy’s Bar. “It’s the middle of the day, so it’ll be quiet, but stick close.”

Amanda nodded with forced calm, fingers tightening around the stake hidden in her waistband, where apparently that kind of weapon went – which not only seemed weirdly phallic, but also a seriously bad place for splinters. Still, it was better than no weapon at all. She wasn’t strong enough to push through a breastbone (or any bone for that matter), but she’d gotten good at stabbing through skin. And it was a little disturbing how much she enjoyed it. Like really, really enjoyed it.

“We’re made for violence, mini-me,” Faith had said with a shrug when she’d mentioned it a few weeks ago. “Just gotta make sure you toe the right side of the line.” She’d looked a little troubled when she said that, like she knew exactly where the line was and what crossing it meant.

It turned out there really wasn’t much to worry about at all in Willy’s Bar. 10am apparently equaled mostly deserted, minus some weird blue, furry dude in the corner who just grunted at them, and a weaselly-looking bartender guy. The bartender raised the dirty glass he was wiping in greeting. Gross.

“You’re up bright and early, Slayer.”

Faith shrugged. “Shit’s hitting the fan. I’ll catch up on my beauty rest later.”

The bartender grinned toothily at that, turning an eye Amanda’s way. “So, who’s the squirt?”

“Slayer in training.”

“Kind of young,” he said after a moment, which made Amanda bristle, but then he shrugged. “Looks about the age Buffy was when she started kicking me around.”

Faith laughed. “Just about.” Her expression faded to serious as she leaned against the bar. It was done casually, but she did it like a stupid model, with her butt out and her boobs nearly on the super dirty wood. Buffy kicked butt for information (apparently), but she had the feeling Faith preferred to  _use_  hers. More than one way to skin a cat, as her mom liked to say. Amanda glanced down at her flat chest. Yeah, she was going to have to go the blonde Barbie route for a while. Maybe forever.

“Need you to round up the regulars tonight, Willy. Tell them B and I have some news.”

Willy stopped polishing the glass, licking his lips as he glanced at Faith’s boobs. “Plenty who still don’t like or trust you, Slayer. Not to mention each other. Telling them to make a date with both of you… well, I’m not a miracle worker.”

“Yeah.” Faith drummed her fingers on the bar, brow furrowing. “The Initiative mean anything to you guys still?”

“Half the town lost family down there. Think it’ll be a long time before those assholes get forgotten around here.” Willy grimaced. “Sales were down for a year.”

“Well, turns out they’re heading back into town,” Faith said nonchalantly, peering at her nails. “If you don’t want to go out of business, get your scrawny ass moving and set us up tonight.”

Willy looked really worried now. “Well, why didn’t you say that to begin with!” He started pulling out a notebook with phone numbers, tugging the phone onto the bar. “The backroom is yours. Don’t come before nine.”

Then he promptly ignored them to start making calls.

Once outside, Amanda looked back the seedy bar with a twinge of disappointment. “That was it?”

Faith grinned. “It’s not all glamorous ass kickings, mini-me. But you’ll be back tonight. Figured it’d be good for Willy to recognize you before. He’s a rat, but he’s smart enough to keep an eye out for you now.”

Amanda glared at her defiantly. “I can totally take care of myself.”

Faith just laughed. “You know what happens when a bunch of demons end up in an enclosed space?”

“What?”

“It’s a fucking free-for-all.”

 

***

 

Buffy regarded the quickly filling room with trepidation. It was usually the kitten poker room, but tonight they’d cleared out the tables and cages. Willy had also removed anything remotely breakable. Smart man.

Beside her, Spike was surveying the crowd with amber eyes, the sharp planes of his demonic guise highlighted in the poor lighting. Faith was on her other side, head thrown back and hands on her hips as she smirked at the incoming demons. Buffy had tried to give her one last out this afternoon.

“Faith, you’ve sort of been a part of this project by default, but it’s about to get pretty crazy here. Don’t think you have to stay just because.”

Faith had laughed at her with a derisive snort. “Oh, shove off, B. If I didn’t want to do it, I wouldn’t be fucking doing it. We’re in this together. Alright?”

“Alright.”

So here they all were. Most of the Scoobies were staying away, out of range of fire, but Dawn was here, as she refused to miss an opportunity to hang out with Ant. The two of them and Amanda were settled into the far corner, the farthest away from their volatile audience.

Clem and Jose – who Spike still wouldn’t speak to after the last board game night – filed in, Clem with a cheery wave. Jose just flared his many skeletal nostrils in their general direction.

“Wanker,” Spike muttered.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “You’re the one who cracked the sarcophagus with his body.”

“The twat was sitting on the ‘get out of jail free’ card!”

Buffy made to retort, but Lawson chose that moment to enter with his little fledge family, Albert and Mathilde coming up behind them. The few other vampires that had arrived were near the closest exits, ready to bolt, but relaxed as the other Master vampires stepped in the room. Must have been fairly new to town, or else they’d have realized the trio was as likely to stake them as either of the Slayers.

By ten o’clock, the room was packed to overflowing, and several small scuffles had already broken out. They’d ended up distributing the Ano-movic clan around the perpetrators to buy a few more minutes of relative peace. Still, it was a ticking time bomb.

Buffy regarded the room with a frown, her expression shifting as she spied the red solo cups Willy had provided in lieu of glassware. It looked like the freakiest college Halloween party ever.

“Guessing we have twenty minutes tops before all hell breaks loose, pet,” Spike murmured.

“That had better not be literal.”

He flashed a quick grin at her. “Well, demons. Bit of hell comes with the package.”

Buffy took a deep breath. “Better get this show on the road then.”

Spike nodded, letting loose a piercing whistle that cut through the din. “All you tossers listen up! Slayers here have summat to say.”

Buffy had been preparing her speech carefully, knowing that if she said it the wrong way, there’d be an uproar too early and they’d lose whatever chance they had at getting the community to listen. Their attention was already tenuous at best.

“Hey, there.” So it wasn’t her strongest opening – whatever. She always sucked at those. “I know most of you don’t want to be here right now, but we appreciate you coming. You may have heard rumors that the Initiative is coming back to town…” There was a solid wall of affirmative noise, and she waited a minute for it to settle before continuing, “and it’s true. Mostly.” And here came the tricky part. “The thing is, some people got word that the demons here aren’t… being terrorized. That Faith and I, in particular, aren’t killing those of you who don’t fit on an arbitrary short list of ‘harmless’ demons.” There was an uproar of offense at that and Buffy winced.

Spike snarled. “Shut your bloody gobs and listen!”

Faith stepped forward. “Thing is, we know you all can fuck shit up if you want to.” She smirked. “Kinda like that about you guys.” Laughter met her. Probably some of them remembered when Faith had been on the darker side of things – to their advantage now. “In fact, right now, that’s exactly what we’re asking you to do.”

“Soldiers are coming,” Buffy continued. “They’re not going to care who you are or whether you want to hurt them. If you don’t want to be in the crossfire, get out of town before the new year….” There was a sudden surge of murmuring. “And if you want to fight… well, stick around and join the team.”

Amid the hubbub, a scaly, horned demon stepped forward with a hiss. “You expect us to believe the  _Slayers_  are planning to kill humans?”

Buffy met his reptilian eyes squarely. “Yes.”

More muttering and then another shout. “And why should we follow you?”

“Because,” Spike said with growl, “we have the resources to make sure as many of you gits stay alive as we can.”

“And if you get in our way,” Buffy continued evenly, “you might end up as dead as the commandos instead.”

A lot of the room dissolved into heated argument after that. Some of the less violently inclined species took their leave, heading back to home and family, to spread the word and likely get the heck out of dodge until the worst blew over. Others seemed content to take their chances by themselves, with no desire to bend to the likes of Slayers beyond staying out of the way (if they were smart).

When all was said and done around midnight, half a dozen bodies lay on the floor, and a couple dozen demons remained, eyeing each other warily.

Buffy smiled at them. “Welcome to the Resistance.”


	27. Looped

They had a pine tree stuck in the back door. And no, that was definitely not a euphemism. Unfortunately. Buffy stared at the gigantic conifer, throwing Spike a dirty look.

“Seriously, Elly, why did you keep shoving it in?” When Spike looked like he was about to make a clearly crude remark, she cut him off with a withering glare. “Don’t even.”

He just grinned at her. “Don’t know what you mean, luv.”

“Uh huh.” She pointed at the door with a glare. “Tree. Door. Fix.  _Now_.”

Dawn snorted with laughter from where she was resting on the kitchen island eating ice cream straight from the carton. “I don’t know, Buffy, it’s easier to reach the top of it this way.”

“Very funny.” Buffy eyed her smirking family with exasperation, flinging up her arms. “Thomas is going to be here any minute!”

Spike raised a brow. “Yeah, and lucky we’re up to fire code and have more than one entrance, pet.”

Well, it was progress that he was even able to mention the front door so casually, although he did wince a bit at the end. It helped that the front door had been seeing a lot of traffic lately. With invasion practically nigh, demons had been in and out of Revello Drive with almost astonishing frequency over the past week. And they were a bunch of chowhounds. She’d had to padlock the fridge after the second round of visits.

It was all honestly a little surreal. And déjà vu-ey. Luckily, for this little war, she and Spike weren’t camped out in a bakery closet. And there was the slight change where the entire world wasn’t on the brink of hell. Ironically, they were now attempting to protect the mouth of hell from the rest of the world.

Giles had been trying to get ahold of the Council non-stop. He’d begged and pleaded and ranted and swore, but it hadn’t done any good. The constant line was that the Slayers had been compromised. It made her wonder why the Council was even pretending to do this for her and Faith’s protection; but then, what better way to force their fighters back into pliability than to take away everything that made them defiant? And if they ‘accidently’ died in the crossfire, well, so be it. She could have told them a century ago that force wouldn’t work. If there was one thing that all Slayers had in common, it was the inherent drive to win. Simple “you punch me, I punch you back harder” mechanics. Angelus had learned that the hard way, once upon a time.

_Take all that away, and what’s left?_

_Me._

Except there was a lot more than herself here now. And although a somewhat sizeable portion of her conscience felt guilty for even coming back to Sunnydale – for bringing this crap down on everyone when staying away would have meant… well, okay, so it probably would have meant another Big Bad would caused almost as much trouble – a larger portion of her was sort of glad for the fight. After the War, they’d mostly avoided actual global conflict in favor of the more traditional ‘demon tries to screw up a small area’ type of Slayer work. And Buffy hadn’t realized until now quite how much she’d missed commanding troops.

Of course, she’d also forgotten how exhausting it was. But there was Spike and Faith to help, and the Scoobies, and Albert and Mathilde, and Lawson. Lawson was a godsend (literally, depending on how you regarded the PTB), particularly in the vampire community. It turned out that Anya’s suggestion for the fledglings from late summer regarding blood bonds was a fantastic one. Just not for the reasons they’d originally thought. Lawson was dueling with resident vampires in her and Spike’s name as the Masters of Sunnydale, establishing a clear hierarchy of power. And when the vampires lost, they submitted to him in blood, thereby officially enlisting in their Resistance. It was a hell of a way to recruit a fighting force. Lawson had already sworn an oath to Spike in a traditionally gruesome display that practically looked like Spike was going to rip the younger vamp’s throat out, but they both seemed pleased with the encounter. Spike had refused to let her complete the ritual.

“Dunno what it would do to you, Buffy. And Lawson’s already family. It doesn’t feel hardly any different on my end.”

So Lawson had simply taken a verbal oath for her side, although he seemed to regard it just as seriously. She put it down to his military background.

Albert and Mathilde, as always, simply followed of their own volition.

“You guys don’t have to get involved with this,” she’d told them, much the same as she’d told Faith.

Mathilde regarded her with surprise. “And miss the fun? Ne sois pas absurde.”  _Don’t be absurd._

Albert had simply shrugged. “Has been too long since I’ve killed humans. Will be very pleasurable.” A pause. “And is our territory now, as well, Général.”

“Thank you.”

She hadn’t know what else to say, despite the fact that it seemed wrong to thank someone for killing. She wasn’t sure it would ever stop feeling wrong – it hadn’t in a hundred years. But she’d learned how to get past that. In the end, life was a fragile, tenuous thing, and death so common and inevitable. Sometimes multiple times over, if her experience was anything to judge by.

She was thinking of death more and more often lately, spurred by all the shadows of war and her own brain, which still got stuck in nightmares of drowning more often than not. She wondered how many years it would be before her sleep settled again. Hopefully not as many as it had taken to settle after Paris.

But the days brought relief; some of them like today, where her very intelligent but horrible at planning husband decided to try and fit half a forest through their door. After so many years of travelling to their Bits for the holidays, Spike was taking hosting for the holidays very seriously. And  _seriously_  overdoing the decorations. The ridiculous vampire had even invested in a nativity set, to her complete bafflement.

“It’s traditional,” he’d said defensively, to her look of incredulity as he thrust baby Jesus above the fireplace.

Dawn, of course, was thrilled about the entire thing, and she’d been bouncing with excitement for days about Thomas’s imminent return.

They’d all wanted so badly to meet their Delancey Bit in L.A., but with the way things were in their little spot of hellmouth, it just wasn’t a reasonable option. Amazingly, Angel had offered to pick Thomas up and join them in Sunnydale for a few days, both to join them for Christmas dinner and see what help he might be able to lend for their commando woes. Angel, she had remembered with belated amusement, disliked the Initiative soldiers nearly as much as Spike did, even if for wildly different reasons.

She sort of hoped the elder vampire might commiserate with her on the absurd level of Christmas spirit in their household. Angel’d never struck her as the holiday cheer type.

“It’s our first Christmas without mom, you know,” Dawn had told her matter-of-factly, when Buffy had been about to toss the heaps of tinsel out of the window. “Well, for me, anyway.”

Oh. Right. It was still bizarre to think her mom had been dead less than a year to the rest of the world. Buffy sighed and held up the tinsel as she surveyed the molding over the living room entryway. “Grab the step ladder and help me pin this up?”

Dawn’s squeal of excitement had been her only answer.

Now, as Spike was cursing and struggling with the tree, the front door rang. Dawn ran for it before Spike could stop her, with Buffy following eagerly behind. But instead of Thomas, it was just a shy Ant on the other side.

“Uh, hi, Dawn. Mrs. Summers.”

Dawn wrinkled her nose. “Eww, that was mom. Buffy is just Buffy.” She tugged Ant inside and up the stairs, yelling over her shoulder, “We’re heading to my room. Let me know when Thomas arrives!”

Dawn’s door slammed shut.

Buffy sighed. “No boys with the door shut!”

She heard Spike chuckle from the kitchen. “Think you’re too late for that warning, luv.”

Buffy wandered back into the kitchen, where Spike was staring at the tree with a deep frown. “Are we talking physically or metaphorically?”

Her husband turned to her with a short grin. “Prolly both.” His expression darkened. “But the door shut better the only bloody  _physical_  thing we’re too late for.”

Buffy raised a brow. “Please remind me how many teenagers we’ve been around over the years?”

His expression darkened further. “Bloody hell, I’m going up there.”

“Oh no you don’t.” Buffy pecked his lips gently, with a laugh. “You’re on tree fix-it duty, mister I-went-way-overboard-for-the-holidays. I’ll handle our Bit and the boy situation. Plus, I’m pretty sure  _I_  can do it without bloodshed.”

Spike sighed. “Fine.” He scowled at the tree. “Might call up to Glinda. Maybe she’s got a spell or some rot that’ll let me get this out without ripping it in two.”

“Magic? Wow, Elly, you must be desperate.”

“Oh, sod off."

Buffy grinned at him before heading back toward the staircase. “I’ll get her on my way.”

Tara had offered to move back to the dorms with Thomas returning, but since their Bit seemed far more interested in getting his own apartment for a semi-permanent residence, the blonde witch had decided to stick around.

Tara opened her door with a small smile to Buffy's gentle knock, the sound of meditation music wafting through the opening. “Hi, Buffy. Everything okay?”

“Spike got a little too enthusiastic with the tree shopping. He could potentially use a magic hand.”

“Oh, dear. I’ll be right down.”

“Thank you.”

That done, Buffy turned toward Dawn's room, announcing loudly, “We agreed no boys with the door shut, Dawnie,” as she swung the door open, to her sister's surprised squawk.

“ _Hey_! Knock much?!”

A very panicked Antonio scrambled down from Dawn’s bed, his red face positively glowing with embarrassment or panic. Probably both.

“Uh. Huh.” Buffy raised a brow and stared at the mortified teens. “We also agreed no shut doors.”

Antonio eyed her nervously. “Sorry. I was just– just… uh, I’m Dawn’s… boyfriend?” His voice lilted up at the end, and he glanced over at Dawn with hopeful uncertainty.

Dawn blushed and nodded.

Buffy crossed her arms over her chest. “Boyfriend, huh? And just when were we going to be told about said boyfriend? Before or after he started hanging up clothes in your closet?”

“Buffy!”

She fought to hide a smile. “Door open, Dawnie.”

“Okay, jeez,” Dawn mumbled, burying her face in a pillow.

Chuckling, Buffy wandered into her own bedroom, adjusting photographs along the wall as she went. Dawn had been distressed at the lack of photos with her in them and had been corralling Buffy and Spike into photogenic situations for the past several months to make sure that the youngest Summers had as much presence in their home as the rest of their family. Photos of the three of them were now littered around the house, in between black and white portraits of Buffy and Spike with Charles and his children and modern photographs of their much-enlarged clan. It felt… right.

Deciding to avoid whatever struggle was happening downstairs (Spike’s muttered expletives were not reassuring), Buffy stretched out in bed and pulled a favorite book to re-read, even though her concentration was pretty much nil. Half of her was focused on the teenage noises next door and the other half was torn between wondering how long her husband was going to smell like a pine forest after this situation and listening with almost painful intensity for the door.

When the doorbell rang, Buffy flung herself off the bed and broke into a run for the stairs, feeling giddy and suddenly far more in the mood for Christmas. Their Bit was back.

But, no sooner had her foot reached the bottom step on the staircase than she suddenly found herself standing back in the kitchen with a cursing Spike glowering at the tree.

What the…

Spike regarded her warily when she just stood stiffly beside him, her mind a blur of confusion. “Not going to tell me off then, pet?”

Huh? “Well, I already did,” she said cautiously, peering around. She froze as she spied Dawn eating out of the carton of ice cream, exactly as she had been doing half an hour ago.

Okay, major weirdness land.

Spike blinked. “Think that conversation might’ve just taken place in your noggin, luv.”

“Well, you guys are super ancient,” Dawn said between mouthfuls of ice cream. “Maybe Buffy’s getting that old person disease.”

Spike snorted amusement. “Alzheimer’s?”

“Yeah. That one.”

Buffy frowned. “No, I was just…” Her unsure reply was abruptly cut off by the doorbell. Dawn squealed excitedly and rushed out of the kitchen as Buffy stared almost blankly after her.

Spike threw her an odd look. “Not going to go greet the Bit?”

“I don’t think it’s him.”

Sure enough, Dawn’s voice filtered back with a shouted, “Ant’s here! We’re heading to my room. Let me know when Thomas arrives!” followed by the sound of two stomping pairs of feet up the stairs.

Spike raised a curious brow. “Good guess, pet.”

Buffy bit her lip in worry, debating whether to tell her husband what had just happened. He would immediately fall into guard dog mode, trying to sniff out whatever threat had apparently decided to hit the life rewind button just for her. Maybe… maybe she’d just see where this was going first, before she put everyone on high alert.

“Lucky me,” she murmured finally. She managed to force irritation to the forefront. “Please get the tree out of here in one piece, Elly.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, a hand rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. Then his gaze narrowed and he turned abruptly back to her. “Wait. Did Niblet just bloody well shut her door with that bloke?”

Apparently, it was going about the same way as before. “Mhmm. I’ll go deal with it. And grab Tara to help you with the tree. Maybe she has something witchy that’ll do the trick.”

Spike looked at her gratefully. “Appreciate it, luv.”

After once again begging assistance from Tara, Buffy rather wickedly flung open Dawn’s door without knocking. Ant tumbled off her sister’s bed with a startled yelp.

“No boys with the door closed, Dawnie!”

Her sister glared at her, her face flaming. “Geez, knock much?!”

Buffy just raised a brow at her. “Wouldn’t happen if the door was open, Bit. Boyfriends are not allowed in closed door rooms.”

Ant’s nervous gaze flicked between her and Dawn. “Boyfriend?” His voice was absurdly hopeful.

Dawn nodded, looking girlish and shy.

Buffy snorted a laugh and turned back into the hall. “Open. I mean it.”

“You made your point,” Dawn grumbled after her. Then, “You’re worse than mom!”

Buffy smiled softly as she stopped at the top of the stairs. “I’m much older,” she murmured.

Much as she had in the last iteration of whatever was going on in Buffy re-run land, she stared at the collection of photographs and maps littering their walls, wrapping down the stairs and parading into all the wall space down below, coating the house with flashes of past moments, most of them older than the house itself. For a Slayer who never expected to live past her twentieth birthday (and twenty-fifth on a terribly optimistic day), it was all kinds of strange to see that tiny bits of her life were now enough to fill an entire house.

And now she was apparently stuck replaying a very particular set of moments, either through some demonic influence or… something. Buffy glanced around warily as she settled herself on the steps to wait, but no demons seemed forthcoming. Still, it seemed safest to be on her guard in the middle of the house, where the door where she’d met her second death couldn’t hide, and where Dawn’s laughter floated from above, mixed with Spike’s curses from below.

And she waited. Finally, the doorbell rang, and Buffy rose with hesitant anticipation. She almost reached the door this time.

And then she was standing in the kitchen next to an embarrassed and fuming Spike.

“Bloody hell,” he growled, glaring daggers at the tree. “Bunged this one up proper.”

Buffy let her gaze flick around, to where Dawn was barely containing her laughter as she leaned on the island, the ice cream spoon halfway to her mouth.

Okay, well, this was officially a problem. Still, Buffy couldn’t help herself from repeating the obvious. Again. “Well, you’re the one who kept shoving it in, Elly.”

His mouth flickered briefly into a leer, and she let him voice the thought this time. “It's always fit before, luv.”

Dawn gagged in disgust. “Eww! Gross!”

Spike chuckled, his mirth fading as he looked back at the tree. “Is just the right shape,” he lamented. “Don’t wanna rip it.”

“Well, guess you’d better fix it then,” Buffy said with a raised brow.

That probably applied to her, too. Whatever was going on, it didn’t seem evil exactly. Annoying, yes, but it wasn’t like she had to keep repeating some terrible battle and hoping she came out on top each go-through. This seemed almost random, although infuriatingly placed to keep her from answering the door.

Door. Death. Ocean. Looped.

“Oh, son of a bitch,” she swore before she caught herself. It was Willow.

Spike paused, a line of worry creasing his brow. “I’m sorry, luv. Really. I’ll get it fixed in a jiffy.”

Buffy managed a wan smile, pecking him reassuringly on the mouth. “It’s not you, William. I just… I need to make a phone call.”

She moved past her bemused husband and toward the living room as the doorbell rang, and Dawn took off with the expected squeal of excitement. When she and Ant had raced up the stairs with a quick yell, Buffy settled herself on the couch and grabbed her cell phone from the coffee table.

Willow answered on the fifth ring, sounding both groggy and worried. “Buffy?”

“Hey.”

“Is there an apocalypse?” Willow seemed to rouse, her voice awash with grim practicality.

A smile pulled at Buffy’s lips and she laughed slightly. “God, the hellmouth really does a number on us, doesn’t it?”

“So no apocalypse.”

“Nope.”

A pause. “Well, that’s… good.” Another pause. “Uh, not to be all 'nosy and cut to the chase' girl, but it’s almost 2am here, and, uh, the other witches kind of kept me out late séance-ing.” Willow giggled. “It’s the French code word for drinking way too much wine and discussing spells.”

“It sounds nice.”

“Yeah, it is. Think I’m getting the hang of things.”

“About that.”

She could almost hear Willow’s wince over the phone. “Oh no. There wasn’t another bad Warren-type guy who decided it was time to be all ‘evil dude who kills my friends because he went to another dimension’ was there?”

“Nope.” Thank god. Buffy took a deep breath. “It’s just… I’m sort of on repeat here.”

“Huh?”

“I keep reliving the same half hour over and over again. This is the third time so far.”

“Oh.” Willow sighed. “Half an hour is how long the time loop was for when you were… when we saved you.”

Well, if Buffy had any lingering doubts about her own personal Groundhog Day, they all but flew out the window at that moment. “So it’s a magical consequence.”

“Um, I guess so,” Willow mumbled, her voice colored heavily with embarrassment. “Goddess, I’m so sorry, Buffy.”

“Don’t be sorry, just help. Please. Before I end up with a stupid pine tree situation for eternity.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“Okay.” Willow took a steadying breath, the sound fogging heavily over the phone. “Okay. Most of the other witches here are still awake, even if, um, kind of tipsy. We’ll figure this out.”

“Quickly would be of the good. Otherwise, I’m just going to have to call you back in another,” Buffy pulled her phone away briefly to glance at the clock, “twenty-six minutes, and start this rollercoaster all over again.”

“Super speedy witchy-ness. Got it. I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Okay.”

Willow disconnected the phone from her end and Buffy sat back on the couch with a groan. “Dying over and over again wasn’t consequence enough? Stupid magic.”

The tingle of Spike’s increased presence washed over her as he made his way into the living room doorway. “What’s that about stupid magic, luv?”

She shrugged heavily. “Just, um… I’ve kind of done this twice before.”

Spike arched a brow. “This?”

“This current half hour tv show time slot scenario.” Buffy regarded him with a wry smile. “Something tells me you’re about to go scare the bajeezus out of Ant and Dawn, and then beg Tara’s help.”

Her husband’s brow drew higher. “Spot on.” He frowned at her. “You say you’ve done this. Do you mean…?”

“Yep. Buffy is stuck in confusing time travel land again. Some time looping thing.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Willow.”

“Geez, Elly, you figured that out way faster than I did.”

“Not hard, luv. Only witch that’s been playing around with time loops that I recall.”

“Touché.”

“Right then.” Spike stood next to her by the couch and nudged her leg. “Budge up.”

“What about Dawn and the tree?”

Her husband’s expression was darkly humorous. “Won’t have happened in a bit, will it?”

Trust Spike to see through every situation in the most piercing way. “I guess not. Well, maybe. I called Will. She’s supposed to get back to me.”

“Well, then. If it seems time’s going to go on its merry way, I can finish my trek upstairs in a bit.”

“Don’t kill Ant.”

Spike chuckled as he pulled her against him, nuzzling into her neck with cool breath. The wash of it against his mark left her shivering, suddenly hot. “Don’t suppose I did that the last few times.”

“I made you stay downstairs and deal with the forest situation.”

“Prolly wise.”

Buffy buried herself against his chest, laughing in resignation. “How are you so calm right now?”

There was a pause, then Spike’s free hand came up to run through her shortened locks. “Not much strange that could shake me now. Not after…”

“Losing me.”

He sighed against her skin, head rising slightly to nibble on her earlobe. “Worst hours of my existence, that.”

“I know.”

She felt his lips shape into a grin. “So what’s a little time displacement? Seem to recall it’s led to rather good things.”

“Good meaning you?”

“Well, wasn’t going to give myself  _all_  the credit, but now that you mention–”

“You’re incorrigible, Elly.”

He rumbled a laugh. “Always, pet. Always.”

Buffy pulled her legs up onto the couch, curling herself more firmly into Spike’s body and letting his arms wrap around to push her against his chest.

“You’re really going overboard with the whole Christmas thing,” she mumbled after a few minutes. “All the holidays, but especially this one.”

There was a long pause, followed by an unwilling grunt. “Suppose so. First holiday season back in Sunnyhell and all that rot. Want it to be perfect.”

Buffy snorted. “Elly, it’s a hellmouth.”

“Well, forgive a bloke for trying, you carping mare.”

“Not until you fix the stupid tree.”

“I’ll show you a bloody tree.”

Buffy sat up with a mischievous smile, meeting Spike’s laviscious gaze, and her cell phone chose that moment to ring. Sighing, she flipped it open. “What’s the solution, Wils?”

“Um, final consensus?”

“Mhm?”

“Wait.”

“ _Wait?_ ”

There was an embarrassed silence from the other end. “Jeanette said it’s probably an echo-ing issue. It took us a dozen-ish loops to get you out of it the first time. It might be that… after that you kind of sort of just stop looping.”

“Oh, geez.” Buffy sighed. “Well, I’ll call you after a dozen-ish if it doesn’t work, I guess.”

When she hung up, Spike eyed her closely, head slightly tilted. “So, it’s all hang fire, eh?”

“I guess.”

He grinned at her. “Well, then. Expect you can have some fun until it ends.”

“Fun?”

“Fun, pet.” He laid her down on the couch with clear intent, sliding up her shirt and dipping fingers low into her waistband.

“O-oh,” she said breathlessly. “Fun.”

 

***

 

Buffy decided to take her husband’s advice. Mostly out on him.

The next time she found herself flipped to the kitchen, she patiently waited until Dawn found Ant and scrambled up the stairs, and then smirked wickedly at her bemused vampire.

“Buffy?”

“I want the tree out of the door. Now.”

He sighed. “I know, pet. I’m sorry. I’ll–”

She tackled him into said tree. Pine needles went flying.

“Bloody hell, woman!”

Giggling, she ripped his shirt from him and licked a nipple experimentally as he gasped. “Mmm, piney.”

When she left her husband (stripped and moaning against the bark, every inch of him tasted for flavor), she skipped up the stairs and flung Dawn’s door open with a sharp, “Ant, get out of Dawnie’s bed right now. Dawn, no boys in your room with the door shut!” and was back downstairs nearly before they’d managed to do more than squawk in panic.

Spike met her in the hallway, looking utterly disheveled as he zipped up his jeans. Pine sap was sticking to his curls, and he was wide-eyed, tracing several bite marks she’d laced along his torso.

“What’s gotten into you, luv?”

“Just had some free time.”

“We wrecked the tree.”

“It’ll be okay in a bit.”

He smirked at her. “Appreciate the optimism, sweetheart, but nothing’s going to repair that disaster.”

She gave him a quick wink and sashayed into the living room. “If you say so.”

She saw the ambered lust and curiosity flare in his eyes. “I say lots of things.”

“Tell me.”

Then it was her turn to yelp in surprise as Spike tackled her onto the couch. Poor Albert and Mathilde. She and Spike had put up more insulation when they remodeled the basement, but with vampire hearing, it probably didn’t do much good.

 

***

 

Feeling a little guilty for destroying the tree, Buffy spent the next several loops helping dislodge the stupid thing, until Tara finally recommended shrinking the tree and then putting it back to full size once it was appropriately placed.

Dawn had – for once – been more interested in the tree situation than making out with Ant, and both teenagers were avidly watching the proceedings. They all stared at the knee-size pine in the doorway when Tara was done doing her magic.

“Wow. It’s like  _Honey I Shrunk the Kids_ , Christmas tree edition,” Dawn said with glee. “Tara, that’s so cool!”

Tara smiled with abashed pride. “Happy to help.”

Spike scooped up the miniature conifer, glowing with pride. “Now we can set this bugger up so it’s ready for when the Bit gets here.”

Buffy held in a wry smile.  _That’ll be a few more loops yet, Elly._

 

***

 

Tree problem solved, Buffy wasn’t sure what to do with herself by the eighth loop. More sex with Spike? Always tempting, although she sort of wanted him to remember it later, even if he was the one encouraging her experiments.

When she’d apparently been standing too long without speaking once Dawn ran up the stairs with Ant, Spike threw her a worried look.

“I’ll get this sorted, Buffy. Don’t fret.”

“Hmm? Oh, I’m not worried. It’s an easy fix.”

He raised a brow. “Is it now?”

“Yep. Just a bit of witchy mojo and we’ll be good to go.”

Spike chuckled. “If you say so, pet. Why the face, then? You look deep in thought.”

She shrugged, turning to slide herself into Spike’s willing arms. “Elly, if you could do anything right now – anything at all – and know that in twenty-five-ish minutes it wouldn’t have happened anymore, what would you do?”

He snorted in surprised amusement. “That’s easy.”

“Really?” Buffy looked around the kitchen in indecision. “I’m kind of coming up blank.”

“That’s because you stick too close to normal, luv.”

She met his gaze in challenge. “Normal, huh? I’m not the one going Christmas-crazy.”

Spike hesitated for a moment, then gave her a hard, knowing look. “Do we really have the time?”

Well, that’s what she got for being married for a century, apparently. Spike could read her like a book. “We do.”

"Something I should be worried about?"

"Nope. It'll fix itself, I'm told."

“Right then. Not going to waste time asking how.” He stepped away from her, grabbing the tree trunk. With a deep snarl, he snapped the trunk in two and threw the pieces out the door, before turning back to her with a grin. “That was a bit of alright.”

Then he grabbed her arm and tugged them in the backyard, to her surprised laughter. Huh. All this time (literally) and she’d never thought to go outside. “Elly, where are we going?”

Spike just waggled his brows at her. “You’ll see.”

Apparently ‘you’ll see’ involved Spike’s motorcycle and racing ninety miles an hour along the California coast. Buffy clung to Spike’s duster with twinned elation and terror as cool wind pressed against her skin. “I’m not sure I really feel like testing the whole ‘what does dying do’ portion of things, Elly!”

Spike just laughed, the rumble vibrating above the motor, and pressed the accelerator harder.

 

***

 

It was a little disconcerting when she found herself stationary in the kitchen again. The phantom feel of wind burning her skin was still making her senses tingle. Curious, she asked her husband the same question after that, and he always led her out the door (always seeming equally pleased with the tree’s demise). However, he never did the same thing twice, to her amusement, confirming her long-held theory that most of Spike’s actions were spur-of-the-moment generated.

The next time, he took her to the balcony of the Bronze – already hopping in early evening with the kids back from college – and fucked her where everyone could technically see. Buffy was pretty sure her hands bent the railing as he pounded into her from behind and let her stare down at the oblivious crowd, desperately trying to stifle her whimpers.

“That’s right, luv,” he murmured wickedly into her ear. “Better not scream too loud when you come or they’ll all look up.”

“It’s a really good thing this is getting erased,” she managed, half tempted just to scream, because, well… why not? In the end, her pride and embarrassment kept her mostly quiet, even when Spike rubbed her clit so much that she saw stars.

The next time they ran out the back door, Spike just grinned and took off for the neighbor’s yard.

“Elly, what are you doing?”

He smirked at her as he plucked one of Mrs. Hanauer’s painfully ugly gnomes from her garden. “Hideous buggers, aren’t they?”

“Super.”

“Doing the world a favor then,” he proclaimed, and lobbed it toward the alley with as much vampiric strength as he owned. It shattered on the gravel. Her flamingos followed shortly after, and Buffy thanked everything heavenly that Mrs. Hanauer was away seeing her son.

 

***

 

As loop eleven approached, Buffy was careful to act like it might be the last one, startling Dawn from her explorations of the teenage body and dutifully watching Tara shrink the pine tree. By the end of loop thirteen, panic had crawled into her throat. Thirteen was sort of twelve-ish. Fourteen was not. If it didn’t end now, she didn’t really like her long-term chances.

As Spike hummed and decorated the now-again humungous tree with Dawn and a nervous Ant in the living room, the bell rang. Buffy stood in the hall, waiting.

It rang again.

She slumped against the stair banister with a semi-hysterical laugh. The loop was over.

Spike glanced over at her, worried. “Need me to get that, luv?”

Buffy broke into a giddy smile and shook her head, striding over and tugging the door open with one, probably overly forceful, motion.

Thomas stood on the other side, grinning boyishly at her, his arms filled to the brim with presents. “Hullo, Auntie. Happy Christmas.”

Buffy couldn’t help her answering grin, a small piece of her easing that she hadn’t even realized was tense. “Welcome home, Bit.” Her gaze drew sharply past him, to where Angel was safely ensconced in the shadow of the porch. He was cooing softly to a bundle in his arms. A bundle that was energetically gurgling back at him.

“Is that– Angel, did you bring a  _baby_  into a war zone?”


	28. Sunnydale-at-Large: Season’s Greetings

Angel straightened from where Connor was cooing happily in his arms. His son had seemed like he was about to cry a few minutes ago, but, luckily, a quick display of vampiric features sent him in the other direction. Connor was a bit like Darla that way, who had always been happily distracted by something more pleasurable or easy if it struck her fancy. He was the one who never let things go, allowing something to worry endlessly in the back of his head – a perfect reflection of guilted torment. Of course, when he was soulless, all of that tended to come spilling to the forefront, where it tormented the outside world instead. The thought was sobering as he turned to meet Buffy’s flabbergasted gaze.

She’d cut her hair. It didn’t suit her, he thought with a frown. Still, there was a captivating light in her eyes that was impossible to ignore, and it almost made him shiver. She still looked like the barely twenty Slayer he loved – had loved? – but her eyes were vampire old.

“It’s probably safer here, at the moment,” he replied wearily, all the struggle of the last weeks falling on him. He half suspected Linwood had him followed here, keeping an eye on the child who held his life and safety by proxy. “I couldn’t leave him.”

Not that Cordy had been happy about it. Or Gunn. Or Wesley. Or Fred, for that matter. It had almost come to blows, in the end, and Cordelia had refused to speak to him by the time he left for the airport. He was in for some rather magnificent groveling with the gang after this trip.

Buffy raised a brow, her arms crossing warily. “Leave him?”

“I’ll explain inside,” he said pointedly, gesturing at the door. Connor started to fuss again and he bounced the infant slightly in his arms.

Buffy’s brow rose higher. “Okay.” She paused and took half of Thomas’s armful of presents. “Come in, both of you.”

He tried to stay in the background as the figures inside rushed at Thomas, to the Brit’s delighted laughter. Dawn plowed right into the kid with an ear-splitting shriek, and Connor started fussing at the noise, to Angel’s frustration.

Spike was staring at him, blue eyes wide, a Christmas ornament dangling from his hand. “’Lo, Peaches.”

Annoyance threaded through him. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

His grandchild just smirked. “You can tell me as many times as you like.”

Great. Two minutes in and he already wanted to punch the smile off Spike’s face.

Luckily, Buffy came up beside them at that moment, her foot tapping impatiently. “So. Are you going to explain the baby?”

Part of him wanted to lie. What did it matter whose baby she thought Connor was? He glanced at the wedding ring on her left hand, at the fang marks scarring her neck, covering the ones he’d made before her graduation. His Buffy was long gone, he admitted, with equal parts jealousy and resignation. This Buffy –  _Spike’s_  Buffy – could take the truth; the perverse part of him was happy to burden her with it. “He’s my son. Mine and Darla’s.”

Buffy and Spike both froze, although Spike recovered first, looking wary and suspicious. “What’re you trying to pull, Angelus? Don’t think I need to state the obvious about all that’s wrong with that statement.”

“Well, it’s the truth,” he barked impatiently. Then, more gently, “This is Connor.”

Buffy’s face had grown strangely pale and she reached out halfway toward Connor, something unreadable flashing through her eyes. “How did…”

“Prophecy,” he said with a sigh. “What else?”

“Oh.” Her hand dropped.

Spike took her dropped hand, squeezing it tightly. His expression had grown rigid, and his jaw clenched with anxiety. The boy had never been able to hide his emotions well. Angelus had taken great pleasure in that fact, once upon a time. Hell, Angel still did, despite himself, but worry for Buffy wasn’t something he cared to demean.

Buffy glanced up at Spike, a wan smile passing her lips. “It’s okay, Elly. It’s just… I’d never really thought about it before. Not with us.”

“I know, luv,” was Spike’s soft murmur as he kissed her temple.

They seemed to have forgotten Angel’s presence entirely, and he was – for once – grateful when Connor started fussing again, their attentions snapping back to him with startled force.

“So…” he managed lightly, “where’s the rest of the crew?”

Buffy shrugged, trying for another smile. “They’ll be here soon. Knew you and Thomas wouldn’t get here until almost nightfall.”

Angel found himself nodding almost idiotically to that. The necro-tinted glass in his sports car was a luxury, no doubt, but he still hated having to run for the porch in the waning light, particularly with his son in his arms. Unlike his reckless grandchild, playing with the light held no particular appeal.

Spike gave him an unreadable look. “Sam Lawson’s here.”

The name took a moment to register, then Angel felt his jaw fall open. “Here? As in, here in Sunnydale?”

“That’s right, gramps. Came our way before he was off to see how you best blew in the wind. Convinced him to stick around instead and help out.”

Dumfounded worry filled him. This month was just getting better and better. Another figure who wanted him dead. “You can’t possibly trust him.”

Buffy raised a brow. “With our lives, actually.”

“Are you insane?”

She gave him a rueful, wearied look. “No. Just often time displaced.”

“What?”

Spike was eying her curiously. “Something I should know, pet?”

“It’s just been a really long day, Elly. I’ll tell you later. I need to call Willow, too.” She turned back to Angel, her brow slightly furrowed. “I forgot. You didn’t meet Albert and Mathilde when you were here last time, did you?”

He sighed in exasperation. “Who are  _they_?”

“Family, just like Lawson.”

Angel found himself speechless. “Looks like I need filled in on some things.”

“Looks that way,” Buffy agreed easily. She turned back to the living room, where Dawn was bouncing around Thomas with dizzying energy, and some Ano-movic kid was watching them both with a hesitant smile. “But first, I’d like to hang out with my nephew for a minute.”

 

***

 

“Damn, B, it’s like a parade of exes lately.”

Buffy snorted from where she was dressing the salad on the kitchen counter as Faith watched, snitching a carrot from the mix. “Would you believe it’s been long enough that I barely think of them as that?”

Faith shrugged. “Yeah. But still… a son?”

“Yeah.” Buffy paused, salad forks halted in mid-air. “It’s weird.” Then she shook herself, her eyes getting a hardened look to them. “I’m not sure what help he thinks he’s going to be if he’s trying to protect an infant at the same time.”

“Pretty sure he’ll be gone long before the fireworks, B. He’s got his team back in L.A. counting on him.”

Buffy’s face took on a bitter, amused tinge. “It’s as good an excuse as any.”

 

***

 

Thomas eyed the plans of Sunnydale that covered Liz and Elly’s dining room table. Sewer plans, electric plans, random building plans, all scribbled with notes.

_Cut power here._   
_Good place for a shielding spell._   
_Detonate as needed._   
_Rendezvous point._

“I chose a brilliant time to move to the States, didn’t I?” he murmured in amusement.

Buffy looked over from where she was in heated debate with Rupert about one of the underground locations – some doddering military complex. “Sorry, Bit. I did warn you.”

“That you did, Auntie.” He gave her an impish look. “Since when has a Delancey ever shied away from fighting for the good of god and country and family?”

Elly snorted, arching a brow at his wife. “He gets it from you, pet.”

“Oh, don’t even pin that on me. William and Rosie started it.”

Thomas felt his lips quirk into a grin. He doubted even Auntie Liz knew that nana Rosalie had kept a stack of journals during the War. They’d become family heirlooms, passed down from one Delancey to the next, reminders of their family struggle, and of what Liz and Elly had done for them. He’d been captivated by the stories as a child, particularly delighting in the fact that Rosie tended to swear violently in French was she was irritated, her scrawl turning sharp and jerky.

Beside him at the table, Angelus gave an impatient, annoyed huff. Like most of the gathered group, the vampire had practically no idea about Delancey history. Thomas didn’t attempt to enlighten him. Hearing about the vindictive and brooding vampire through his formative years and then seeing him come and go so quickly in May hadn’t done great wonders for the berk’s reputation, although the fact that he’d picked up his jet-lagged self from the airport with hardly a shrug did give him a few points. Still, bloody hell, Thomas had heard enough Barry Manilow along the way to Sunnydale to last him a good several decades.

Rupert sighed from across the table, massaging his temples. He was a good sort of bloke, and there was a steeliness there that was admirable, hiding a rakishness that Thomas admired even more. “Back to the matter at hand… I can’t condone this usage of the Initiative base. We should blast it closed and be done.”

Liz gave him a tired look. “Giles, we can’t. I promised.”

“Yes, well, I trust him about as far as I can throw him, and my back’s been rather out of sorts,” Rupert said testily.

Elly chuckled darkly. “We don’t trust him anymore than you do, Watcher.”

Xander raised a hand, brow furrowed. “Wait a minute. I mean, I’m usually on board with giving Riley the benefit of the doubt, but I don’t really want to find myself sprouting bullet holes, either. If none of you trust him, why exactly are we doing what he asks?”

Liz bent intently toward one of the maps, her green eyes narrowed and solemn. “Because we’re also doing exactly what we need to do, just in case.” Her gaze rose to her waiting Watcher. “We’ll rig the place to blast, but we’re not touching the trigger unless it all goes to badness.”

Faith made a small noise from where she was leaning in the doorway, her curves perfectly accentuated. “What’re the chances our boy comes down with a case of double-crossing?”

Liz shrugged. “Honestly? I have no idea. If there’s one thing I remember about Riley, it’s that he wants to be the hero. And here… that could go either way.”

 

***

 

Diana was just finishing braiding Claire’s pretty hair when the back of her neck tingled with warning, followed by a much more concrete knock at the door. She glanced up warily at Sam, who had been lounging on the couch, nearly dead to the world (or whatever the vampire equivalent was – she hadn’t thought of a better phrase yet). The poor man was exhausted.

He was sitting up now, his dark eyes glittering.

“Well, I’ll be,” he murmured, a bitter smile flashing across his face.

“Sam?”

“Don’t move, any of you,” he said quietly, rising and heading to the apartment door.

In front of her, Claire, the skinny thing, was shivering slightly. “I don’t like how that feels,” she whispered.

“I don’t, either,” Diana agreed softly. It was an old vampire feeling, oppressive and sharp. It felt almost like Sam’s family – the guy Spike was the closest – but there was something heavier there, domineering.

She couldn’t help but peer over when Sam opened the door, revealing some mid-thirties looking vampire, all broad shouldered and prehistoric browed.

“Chief,” was Sam’s faux-warm greeting, filled with a coldness she wasn’t sure she’d heard from him before. “Didn’t expect to find you in the neighborhood.”

“Lawson,” was the man’s wary return. It was a patronizing tone, almost. It made her rankle, and she stood with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. It caught the attention of the man at the door, and he surveyed her with surprise, his gaze flitting from her to the youngsters, to Frank in the corner, who was nearly vamped out, hunched in discomfort. “You’ve got quite a… group.”

“Family,” was Sam’s tight return, making her swell with pride. “Not that you’d know much about it, Chief. I think you have an absentee father of the year award waiting for you round about somewhere.”

To Diana’s surprise, the dig made the man flinch. Still, he recovered after a moment, jaw clenched. “Buffy says you’re on the straight and narrow.”

“Oh, just as far as the menu goes. I’ll still happily pull out your guts and let you hang for the sunrise.”

The man looked semi-amused at that, and his voice was dark and dismissive. “You look like shit, Lawson. Don’t think you’d be any match for me or any kind of real vampire at the moment.”

Why, that arrogant asshole. Diana strode up, hands clenched. “It’s a good thing he’s not alone then,” she said with her best PTA mom voice.

Sam threw her a fond look. “It’s alright, Diana.”

“No,” she said coldly, “it’s not.” She glared at the surprised man, feeling a slight tingle as the rest of her nest mates came up behind her. “If you think you can just stroll up here and make trouble, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Whoever this jerk-off was, she doubted even he would fare well against all of them at once. Sam had been teaching them to fight lately, and he’d been training with the General woman and Spike.

The man regarded her coolly, although he seemed a bit impressed with her front. “Just came to see my child.”

Huh. Well, that explained a lot. “So you’re Angel.” She gave Sam a small, vicious smile. “Want some help with that gut pulling?”

Angel held up a hand. “I’m not here to fight.”

“No,” she said abruptly, “you’re here to be a shithead. Go away.” She reached out and slammed the door in his face.

Sam stared at the door for a long moment, then blinked at her, breaking into incredulous laughter. “Well, god damn, Diana.”

She just smiled warmly at him, the expression broadening as Ferdy and Claire slid under her arms, one on each side.

“Screw him,” Ferdy said viciously.

“Except not,” Claire added with a wrinkled nose.

“I like the guts idea,” Frank added, standing slightly behind them.

Sam’s smile was blinding.

 

***

 

Anya settled into the cushions on Buffy’s couch with a happy smile. It was a much better piece of furniture than what the Slayer had owned before. The previous sofa had been cheaply made, old, and lumpy. It was rather gratifying to know that Buffy had gained a nose for quality in a century. Age had a way of doing that. Her own home in Arashmaharr had been a place a queen would envy (several had). A sigh escaped her at the reminder and Xander rubbed her knee comfortingly from where he was halfway watching some silly karate movie with Thomas.

“Everything okay, hun?”

“I lost a lot of jewels I’m never going to get back,” she said regretfully. “I was rich, you know.”

To his credit, Xander just blinked and patted her knee a bit awkwardly. “I’m sure that’s… hard.”

“Maybe some of the soldiers we kill will have something interesting. I wonder how much their technology might sell for in the shop. I might be able to advertise it as a novelty.”

Xander open his mouth and shut it again. He and Thomas traded a look she didn’t follow. “I guess… uhm, we’ll find out.”

“Yes,” she agreed firmly, “I guess we will.”


	29. Lights, Camera, Action!

Buffy halfway expected some kind of fanfare at the start – if for no other reason than it was also the start of the new year and fireworks were practically a requirement – but war never seemed to go that way. Particularly for a war most of the population couldn’t be allowed to notice.

The invasion was, in a hysterically funny and yet not funny kind of way, billed as a Hollywood on-location filming for a monster movie. Well, there had been worse covers in the land of Sunnyhell. Mass laryngitis and gangs on PCP came immediately to mind.

It was also an annoyingly smart way for a bunch of men in army fatigues to roam the streets without a single odd look.

Luckily for them, two could play that game.

How in-character at the start of the movie for a bunch of red-skinned, loose-skinned, and scaled creatures to emerge suddenly into the downtown district in broad daylight and start turning over the outside tables at the Espresso Pump while snarling viciously and sending the general populace fleeing in screaming panic (Gee, those extras were talented). And how expected that a quadrant of military men would come rushing down a few minutes later, guns blazing.

And how expected that the monsters took off for a dark alley, as all good monsters were wont to do. And how ironic that the monsters found themselves backed into a dark corner at the end of such an alley, trapped in a place that had once been an area of refuge for creatures like themselves. Fitting justice, the viewer would think.

Except, like with any good movie, this one knew when to employ a twist. Like when a half-dozen other figures dropped from the neighboring roofs, and the blood-thirsty commandoes suddenly found themselves sandwiched between nightmares.

Sometimes in a monster movie, the monsters came out on top.

If there was one thing Buffy had learned about war, it was that it wasn’t a place to fight fair. Whether you won cleanly or dirtily or vilely or brokenly didn’t matter a bit.

What mattered was that you won.

The first commando she killed in Sunnydale had been looking at her with almost blank shock, and then a strange light of recognition. Apparently pictures of the Slayers had been passed around.

“I’m sorry,” she told him softly, before punching him in the throat and snap kicking him with such force that she knew his sternum had broken. “But get out of my town.”

She didn’t apologize again. None of them apologized for trying to killing  _her_.

It was a struggle in the beginning to get Spike to let her out into the field, and they’d fought about it constantly after Christmas.

“I’m going, Elly,” she told him finally, furiously, on the new year, “whether you like it or not.”

To her surprise, he didn’t bother to dispute the fact again; his face was lined with exhaustion and resignation. Instead, he just grabbed her upper arms with bruising force, his blue eyes dark with anger and worry and love. “If you die again, I’ll sodding kill you.”

Her lips found his, equally bruising and hard. “Deal. Let’s go.”

They’d done their best to ward their sleeping and meeting places against detection and harm, which was no small feat. It was something that required a small army of witches, in fact. It was a good thing they had one on call.

After Christmas, Buffy had spoken with Willow for over an hour, going over the whole looping fiasco, which had been admittedly sort of fun in a “I guess I have no choice in the matter so I might as well” kind of way, but it wasn’t exactly something she wanted happening again. Unfortunately, Willow hadn’t seemed very optimistic on that front.

“Buffy… this might… this might be something that sort of happens.”

“Come again?”

“I mean,” Willow amended in a backpedaling tone, “it’s an echo – a ripple – and echoes fade over time, so chances are good that someday it’ll stop happening, but…”

Buffy groaned. “But until ‘someday’ I’m going to have to deal with being randomly time-looped.”

“Sorry.”

She had just sighed. “You know, in the scheme of things, random time looping isn’t really my highest concern. If and when it happens again… I’ll deal.”

“About the high concern things.” Willow took a deep breath. “Renée says you want the coven to come to Sunnydale.”

“Yep.”

“Me, too?”

Buffy smiled slightly over the phone. “Of course you, too, Wil.”

The French coven, about a dozen witches strong, had set themselves up in the Hall of Records near City Hall, where the new mayor of Sunnydale could quietly keep updated on the progress of the “movie production” (he wasn’t a bad guy, but he was mostly keeping neutral in this little showdown) and where all the city-related maps and information were close at hand.

It was an old place, with wallpapered rooms and dusty corners. The first time Willow had walked into one of the rooms, she turned back to Buffy with a pale look of understanding.

“This is where I came.”

“Huh?”

“When I time-travelled, when me – future-me – teleported past-me to the Magic Box. This is where I came first.”

“Oh.”

It was a cold reminder of another thing that needed to be taken care of. Luckily, the Magic Box was another location they’d had warded to the teeth. Still, they all arrived there on January 9th exhausted and cranky from the last week, and too emotionally turmoiled to want to deal with a wayward and unrepentant witch on top of everything else.

It was almost too much. She knew it. It was reopening wounds that had barely begun to close. She wasn’t sure Giles would ever really forgive having to see the broken shell of his other self weep for a Slayer he’d failed. Or that Spike would ever forgive her death. Or that she would ever quite forgive knowing that there were worlds where she was dead or enslaved or broken.

“I– I don’t think I c-can do it, Buffy,” Tara whispered the day before their intervention, her voice stuttering more than it had in months. “I d-don’t think I can be there.”

Buffy nodded, compassion filling her. “I understand. Willow already got us back, technically, so…”

Still, everyone else came, filing into the Magic Box with weary and angry determination. Half of it was misplaced, boiling over from the four demon allies they’d lost the night before, but half of it was leftover resentment that had never quite gotten resolved the first time around. Taking a seat at the back table, Buffy stared at her crew. Xander, Thomas, and Anya were by the register, the three having been nearly inseparable since her Bit’s return. They were barely speaking tonight, though; all of them probably thinking about Willow’s memory spell. Giles was near the small staircase in the middle of the shop, pacing impatiently. Dawn was on the ladder by the bookshelf, bright with anger and clear vengeance-seeking. The youngest Summers had obviously not forgiven that Willow’s spell had sent her to her own version of a nightmare world where Dad was her only relative. Not to mention having then been a terrified amnesiac in the hospital.

Mathilde, Albert, and Faith were in the training room doorway, conversing quietly. They’d been together when the time-travelling happened, Buffy recalled, and – while the French vampires had never really spoken about what they’d experienced – they seemed both unhappy with whatever it was, and angry that it had brought Faith back to them in less than stellar shape. They were Buffy and Spike’s family, but they had become Faith’s friends.

Spike’s hand was digging into her shoulder as he stood next to her. She could feel him vibrating with tension, and knew it was probably going to take all of his self-control not to break Willow’s neck.

“Be civil,” she told the angrily humming room. “God knows we reamed her enough the first time when she got back.” She paused. “Or will. Freaking time travel.”

Dawn glared. “No promises.”

“I’m afraid I must say the same,” Giles said tightly.

Buffy closed her eyes wearily. It was going to be a long night.

The empty chair across from her shimmered a moment later, and a very confused and slightly nauseous looking Willow appeared with a blink. “Wow, that is so not with the fun,” was her shaky exclamation.

“Teleportation usually isn't," Buffy managed evenly.

"Teleportation?"

Buffy nodded briefly, taking a deep breath, reciting the words she’d decided on after some thought. "You ended up travelling to Willow here; since she's not nearby, she had to send you to us." There was no need to get into any details about where current-day Willow was, or why exactly she was holed up in the Hall of Records.

And god, had Willow really looked like this five months ago? The difference was astounding. This Willow held herself with a kind of pleased, innocent arrogance that current-day Willow had shifted into tempered confidence and quiet control. This Willow was bright eyed and bushy tailed and chomping at the bit, even if she was clearly perplexed at the moment.

“Oh,” past!Willow murmured uncomfortably. “What…what day is it?”

Such a simple, awful question. She heard the echo of herself ask other!Spike that same question, panicked and distraught. She could feel the tension in the room ratchet up, and Spike’s fingers were definitely leaving bruises on her skin. “January 09, 2002.”

 

***

 

She was sitting with Faith and Lawson at the dining room table on Revello Drive, going over plans for their next ambush, when Dawn came running in with a squeal and mischievous grin.

“Buffy, close your eyes!”

She raised a brow. “Kinda busy here, Dawnie.”

“It can wait for like five minutes.” Dawn put her hands on her hips, glaring when Buffy opened her mouth to argue. “ _Five_  minutes.”

Buffy looked at Faith for help, but the brunette Slayer was just fighting a smirk. “She’s just like you, B. Better just give her what she wants.”

Lawson merely looked intrigued.

Buffy gave in. “Fine. Five minutes.”

“Close your eyes.”

Frowning, she did, and listened as her sister tried and failed to quietly usher in what sounded like pretty much every person in the house. What in the world was going on?

“Okay, you can open them now.”

When Buffy snapped open her eyes, Spike was smiling gently at her, holding the platter to a giant, frosted chocolate cake.  _Happy 142nd birthday, Buffy_  was scrawled across the top in pink icing.

“Oh.” Buffy felt her throat tighten with sudden emotion.

“We know you didn’t have the best luck with these sort of shindigs way back when,” Xander said with a smile, “but we figured since you’ve now had a bunch of them that the birthday badness had probably worn off.”

Thomas grinned. “If you don’t count that time I flung ice cream all over your dress at age six, Auntie.”

Buffy laughed despite herself.

“It’s important to take advantage of a day where everything is about you,” Anya said solemnly.

“And it’s like the best excuse ever to eat cake for breakfast,” Dawn added hopefully.

“We’re very glad to have you,” Giles said, looking slightly misty-eyed. “And so very lucky.”

“Happy birthday, luv,” Spike murmured.

 

***

 

By late January, the town was swamped by regular skirmish scenes, the commandoes had learned to stay far away from the cemeteries, and the old Initiative cells were slowly filling with the soldiers they managed to capture instead of kill.

They were lucky that most of the military being sent in had no knowledge of this particular Initiative base (there had been, Buffy learned with a sickening lurch, several dotted around the US – usually on a hellmouth where the pickings were plentiful and easy). Those that were aware of the spot seemed to think it was closed and that was that, or else they were afraid to investigate whatever remained.

She and Spike stood out by the old caves at midnight in their usual weekly rendezvous, neither making a move to enter and take shelter from the bite in the air. Spike was chain smoking in full vamp face, which always struck her as slightly funny.

“If I ever see anymore of those dragon bastards,” he growled, “I’ll send them personally back to hell.”

Buffy cracked a smile. “It was just hair, Elly.” She patted her locks, which were slowly growing back out. “And it’s already coming back.”

He paused in his pacing to fix her with a golden glare. “It was almost  _you_.”

“I came back, too.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, then snorted when he caught her grin. “Think you’re so bloody funny, you twisted little bint.”

“Well, you married me. What does that say about you?”

He chuckled, coming over to nudge her with a shoulder as he flicked his cigarette butt away. “Though I’m a sorry excuse for one these days, I’m still a vampire, pet. Twisted’s quite a bit of alright.”

“So that was a compliment then,” Buffy decided innocently.

Spike made to retort, but the shifting of boots on rock from the cave mouth had them both scrambling into fighting position. After a moment, a wary Riley emerged from the darkness, his eyes lightening with relief as he found them.

“All clear?”

Spike nodded abruptly. “So far. How’re the hostiles?”

To his credit, Riley barely scowled. “The  _soldiers_  are fine. I’m making sure they’re fed, and no one seems to suspect they’re here yet.”

“Yeah, well, mind that they don’t,” Spike said darkly.

Buffy sighed. “We weren’t able to take any alive last night. Too many bullets flying.” She paused. “They’re so many of them.”

Riley shrugged, adjusting the knife at his hilt uneasily. “I know. International emergency means they all come running.” He gazed at them solemnly. “This might be a long haul thing.”

Buffy felt her lips curve up into a wry smile. “Don’t worry. We’ve done this before.”


	30. Sunnydale-at-Large: Lights, Camera, Action!

Sunnydale still seemed mostly the same, Xander mused in half bafflement. Well, if you excused the gun-toting commandos and sudden action movie scenes that cropped up around town on a regular basis. He wondered if anyone ever noticed no one was actually filming during those scenes. And all the dead guys… well, they pretty much stayed dead. Geez, people weren’t really that blind, were they?

When he expressed this to Anya one night as they lay in bed, she just shrugged. “People aren’t stupid, honey.” A pause. “Well, okay, they are. But they’re not  _that_  stupid. It’s just safer for them to pretend.” She made a gesture of dismissal. “You’d be amazed how much humans can pretend in bad circumstances. Personally, I just think it’s smarter to leave bad situations if I’m not the one making them, but…” She shrugged, giving him a kind of resigned look. “I’m not taking my own advice, apparently.”

He pulled her into a swift kiss. “Thanks for staying, Ahn. Again.”

She beamed at him. “The shop is making a great wartime profit.” Her eyes narrowed. “But this little skirmish had better end before the wedding. There will be no hunting of the guests!”

Xander just stared at her for a moment, before rolling onto his back with a muttered, “I’ll just ask Buffy to speed up the whole operation, then.”

Anya patted his arm affectionately. “That would be very prudent.”

 

***

 

Willow eyed Buffy from where she was animatedly chatting with Phoebe about a particular shielding spell in the main room of the Hall of Records, edges of the conversation drifting her way.

“No, not there. It’s defensible enough for…”

“… and we’ll send patrol out at …”

“If you think that’s…”

The whole world had gone super weird since May. She’d listened to Buffy talk about taking down the Nazis way back when, but that was practically historical. Everyone from back then was basically dead now, anyway. This was different.

It had always been the Scoobies versus the evil guys. And even once, Scoobies versus evil human organization with the Initiative. But there was still a monstrous Big Bad who’d come to play, in the end. This time… it was just people doing their jobs.

She swallowed and looked back down at the text she was reading. After a few minutes, she realized Buffy had come up beside her.

“How’re you holding up, Wils?”

“Weirdly,” she answered honestly, glancing up with a sheepish smile.

Buffy’s expression was compassionate. “I can understand that.” She paused, an amused smile quirking up her lips. “… says the twice-dead Buffy to the time-travelling witch.”

Willow winced, shutting the book she’d been half-reading. “Technically, you died like a dozen times with the spell.”

“Thirteen,” Buffy corrected wryly. “If the echoing-ness is the same amount of times.”

“Right.” Willow sighed wearily. “All this power stuff with real control is exhausting.” She tried for a wan smile. “But at least I’m cleaning up fewer messes?”

“Yay, you.” Buffy’s cheer was equally forced, but in the nice, friend kind of way.

“Do you ever just get too tired?”

“Sometimes,” Buffy admitted, taking the free chair next to her at the table and exhaling noisily. “But Spike is always there, you know? And he’s like the freaking Energizer bunny.”

Both women giggled slightly at that, before Willow felt her chest tighten. Tara had been that for her. Her happy, warm space in the world, where only the bell-sound of laughter and the warmth of light magic existed.

“I miss Tara,” she whispered, tracing a finger against the wood grain of the table.

“She hasn’t come to see you, huh?”

Willow shook her head slowly.

“Maybe you should call her, then.” Buffy touched her hand lightly, forcing Willow’s eyes up. “She misses you.”

Willow swallowed against the rising hope in her throat. “Really?”

“Really.”

Willow felt suddenly ten pounds lighter as she met Buffy’s slightly smiling gaze. “Okay. I’ll call her.” They were quiet for a moment, then Willow gestured in front of her lap slightly. “It’s still weird, Buffy.”

“Huh? What is?”

“This… war stuff. It’s not… You wouldn’t have done anything like this before.” She paused. “You’re  _killing_  people.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Buffy wasn’t the only one with blood on her hands these days.

To her surprise, Buffy just shrugged. “Not the first or probably the last time, Willow.” Still, her shoulders slumped slightly. “I think… I’ve become more selfish over the years. Before, I thought my entire life was going to be some short save-the-world extravaganza. I’d never get old, I’d never get married, I’d never get pretty much anything.” Her look turned wry. “And then suddenly I  _did_  get old enough to care – old enough to have a family. I wasn’t the active Slayer for more than a  _century_. A hundred and twenty years. I got the time to care about the things I wanted to care about, instead of the things the world needed me to. And I didn’t stop caring about those things just because I came back to Sunnydale.”

Willow felt her brow furrow. “But now you’re all needed by the world again.”

Buffy stilled for a long moment, her face unreadable. Finally, she said, “I’m not staying, Wil. Once this little war is over, Elly and I are leaving.”

Willow gaped at her. “Leaving? But you just got back. A-a-and Dawn is here!”

“Dawn is welcome with us wherever we go. Or she can stay with Giles. Or with any of the Delanceys. Thomas has already offered to house her if she wants.”

“But… what about us?”

Buffy laughed. “It’s not like we won’t be back bunches. I’ll have to check up on the town, after all. Or whatever’s left of it after this tête-à-tête. But Faith is more than capable. And she’s the active Slayer, anyway.” Buffy sighed, her eyes looking suddenly very old. “Spike and I had been through enough over the years before all this. I’ll be around for major apocalypses as needed, but otherwise… I’m officially retiring.” Her lips curved sardonically. “And if the PTB have a problem with it, they can take it up with me. I’ll happily throw a couple more of their agents into walls.”

Willow blinked. “There was throwing into walls already?”

“Whistler was being an unhelpful ass. When I was dead.”

“Oh.” Willow tried to smile, her voice taking on a teasing edge. “So I guess I’d better learn how to manage the teleporting thing better if I want to come visit you in your next world travels, huh?”

“Way better.”

 

***

 

Spike drew in a sharp breath, the smoke from his fag filling his dead lungs in all the right ways. There was hardly a thing better than smoking by the light of the moon. He glanced up and snorted. Bloody full moon, even. The situation was a god-awful poem just waiting to happen. It was a damn good thing he had nothing to write on, or else he’d be sorely tempted, and he really didn’t need the embarrassment of Buffy finding such rubbish in his duster pocket again. Fuck, but that had been mortifying.

She’d just rolled her eyes when he snatched away the bit of paper with a growl. “Oh for Pete’s sake, Elly. You recite poetry to me all the time. And I loved the one you wrote for me.”

“And I didn’t show it you for a hundred bloody years! Besides,” he mumbled, “best thing I ever wrote. And best subject. And it was still piss-all good.”

“I’m sure this one is still lovely.”

“No.”

“Please, William?”

He’d narrowed his eyes at her and promptly flicked open his lighter, burning the damningly awful page to a crisp.

Yeah, he wasn’t about to make that mistake again. And he wasn’t exactly hanging about the crypt just for a midnight jaunt, either. In fact… the slight sound of heavy boots against the grass skated into hearing. Well, well. Looked like soldier boy and his goons were on time, after all.

The first bullet took out a chunk of stone from the crypt he was using as an armrest, about an inch away from his head. He arched a brow. “Sloppy aim, mates,” he said casually, throwing down his cigarette and diving out of the way as another spray of bullets hit.

Fucking overkill. They laughed at Slayers for using stakes when they wasted half a country’s worth of bullets just incapacitating one vamp before they did the same damn thing and staked them (although their bits of wood were some overly industrial military-issue pieces. Stupid wankers. Wood was wood).

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Captain Cardboard’s form as he silently directed his company of men. Spike grinned ferally. Time to remind these buggers why they should be afraid of the dark. Buffy was home with the Bits tonight, as his wife was about dead on her feet. Which meant he didn’t have to worry about her (or worry about her worrying about him, more like).

He slipped into vamp face and flipped up next to a group of tall headstones, ready to duck back down in a half moment. “Fine night, eh, gents?” He sauntered forward, carefully staying near cover. “Quite the proper party we’re fixing for, matter of fact.” He felt the sudden buzz of vampiric presence on the edges of his awareness and grinned. “Hope you don’t mind I invited a few guests of my own.”

It was a larger group of commandos than was typical. Usually they stuck to tight clumps of threes and fives. This was a good dozen men, and Spike couldn’t tell if it was Cardboard trying to speed up the capturing, or if the man had simply decided he didn’t want to play turncoat anymore.

Didn’t really matter either way.

Spike jumped into the fray as the first of the men screamed. He dodged a spray of bullets from some fierce looking bloke and growled, letting his fangs extend.

“Awful close to the coat there, tosser.”

The commando didn’t bother to answer, but he did draw a stake. Most of the others had followed suit upon realizing their opponents’ species. Well, maybe they weren’t  _entirely_  stupid.

Spike struck fast and hard, grunting when the masked man met him almost blow for blow. A heavy hand crashed into his jaw and he snarled in surprise.

“Well, well. Seems that scientist bitch wasn’t the only one making modifications.”

The commando just grinned at him.

“But, mate, I’m pretty sure you’ll still die the same way.”

“Try me, vampire,” was the man’s smug reply, finally goaded in talking. “Taken out a dozen of your kind just this week.”

God, these blighters really couldn’t tell a fledge from a two-centuries-old vampire if their lives depended on it. Oh, wait. They did. He smirked. “Good for you, pup. I’d say to talk to me again when you grow into your knickers a bit more, but I’ve taken out more vamps than you’ll ever dream of.”

The man’s next punch faltered in confusion. Spike didn’t hesitate, clocking the man hard to the temple and watching him topple.

Not far away, he could sense Lawson and his minions tackling the others. All except for…

“White Bread.” Spike lifted a brow at Finn’s tight hold on his stake.

“Hostile 17.” There was no glint of camaraderie in the man’s gaze and Spike felt a heap of anger swell in him. So this was it, was it? The wanker was just going to betray Buffy like that?

“If you expect mercy from me, boy,” Spike said lowly, as the men circled each other, “you’ve got another thing coming.”

Finn grinned blackly at him. “I’ve never expected anything from you, Spike. Nothing but trouble, anyway.”

“And yet I’m not the one that cheated on my girl with vamp whores.”

Finn’s face tightened, a moment before he lunged. “Your girl. Right. How the hell did that happen, anyway?”

Spike dodged the blow, darting back to smack the man hard around the throat. “That’s a story you’re never going to hear.” Another trade of blows. “Because,” he said, ducking a sharp blow from the stupid commercial stake, “it’s none of,” he kicked out Finn’s legs and sent the man flying, “your bloody business!”

Finn lay pinned beneath him as Spike snarled against his jugular. He smelled heavy with anger and a delicious tinge of fear…. and determination. Spike paused, flicking his eyes up at the beaten man.

“You know you want to,” Finn said tightly, jerking his neck toward him. His eyes were strangely intent and suddenly lacking hatred.

Well, bloody fuck. The Cardboard Hero hadn’t turned on them, after all.

Spike lifted a brow, his lips near the man’s ear. “Gonna drain you til you pass out.”

“They wouldn’t believe anything less,” was Finn’s equally low reply. “Just make sure the unconscious ones get to the base. Sam’ll take care of them while I’m out.”

Spike frowned. “Why play it this way?”

There was a pause, punctuated only by the ends of battle nearby. “Out of the field is out of sight. They won’t notice if I’m with the captives as much. At least for a few days.”

“Right.” Spike hesitated, warring within himself. Oh, fucking hell. “Don’t get weird on me, mate, but I’ll make this easier on you then.” He chuckled darkly. “Already know you like it from a vamp.”

Before Finn could make a reply to that, Spike sunk his fangs into the man’s jugular, nearly as carefully as he did with Buffy’s skin. Finn gave a surprised gasp and then stifled a groan at the rising pleasure of the draw. After a minute, his breathing lapsed into unconsciousness from the strong pulls, and Spike rose, wiping the blood thoughtfully from his lips. No juice in soldier boy these days, just some mix of meds that had the tang of prescription.

He turned as Lawson came up behind him and gave the younger vamp a surveying glance. “Looking better, 'Merica.”

Lawson laughed slightly, brushing some bit of dirt from his jacket. “Diana’s been practically force-feeding me at all hours.”

“Knew I liked her.” Spike drew out his cigarettes again and glanced over at the field of gravestones and fallen men. “Keep any alive?”

“Most of them.”

“Good. Pack up the minions, then. Finn’s woman will be waiting for her delivery.”


	31. World-at-Large: Behind the Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is technically a "world-at-large" since the scope is a bit beyond Sunnydale...
> 
> Also, this is dedicated to the wonderful Lizawesome from EF. Thank you for being so excited about this world.
> 
> There is a tiny amount of dialogue here from S6.19 "Seeing Red"

Dawn chewed her bottom lip in what she knew was a seriously annoying imitation of her sister, and stared at the cards in her hands. What counted as a flush, again? “Raise.”

Across from her, Amanda and Ant traded looks before folding, and Dawn raked in the pot – which was currently chocolate-covered pretzels – with glee.

None of them really knew how to play poker, but Xander had left the chips from Thanksgiving and – since Dawn and Amanda had mono according to the high school (and Ant was home-schooled as it was) – there had been a bunch of long days of trying not to be bored out of their minds. Luckily, Amanda’s parents were pretty good at letting her come over to “study” most days, which Spike and Buffy seemed grateful for.

“At least we don’t have to worry about the Bit sucking face this way,” Spike had muttered to Buffy the other day, to Dawn’s acute embarrassment.

Okay, so he wasn’t totally wrong, but… ugh. It wasn’t her fault Ant was a really good kisser. Not that they were ever really alone anymore, anyway. If Tara wasn’t around, then Anya or Xander was, or Thomas, or Albert and Mathilde. It was almost as bad as when Glory was around last year.

The whole thing was stupid.

Dawn had said as much to Giles last week, when she had to – yet again – tell Janice she couldn’t come over.

Giles had sighed, taking a long drink of something gross as he sat at the dining room table. “You are not wrong,” he said heavily, “but you must realize that, to the Council, this is on the level of apocalypse.”

“Seriously? It’s not like Buffy and Faith are hurting anyone!” She winced. “Or, at least, they weren’t until all the stupid soldiers came.”

Giles stared seriously down at his glass for a long moment. “Do you know why the Slayers exist, Dawn?”

“Um… to fight evil and stuff?”

The corners of Giles’s mouth flickered into a dry smile. “Yes, quite. In sum, they were created by the first Watchers to stop the spread of evil. A tool to protect humanity.” He chuckled humorlessly. “The irony, of course, is that they needed something quite inhuman to do so.”

Dawn glared at him. “Buffy  _is_  human!”

Giles looked over at her steadily. “To a degree, yes, of course. Certainly more than the first Slayer. Less so than her most recent predecessors, however, with her immortal status.” He took a long drink from his glass. “But I digress. To the Council, the Slayers are the warriors for good. Not a warrior, you understand.  _The_  warriors. And moreover,  _their_ warriors.” He looked at her with sardonic humor. “Despite having not been able to ever quite control them.”

Dawn frowned in thought. “So… so they’re mad that Buffy and Faith aren’t theirs?”

“Well, yes, that certainly. But they’re also terrified that their creations are no longer acting as the warriors for good. That they’ve turned toward the other side.”

Indignant anger rose in her. “They think Buffy’s evil!”

“And that the shift may plunge the world into darkness,” Giles added lightly, downing the rest of his drink. “Without the warrior for light to protect humanity, the Council sees the fate of the entire world as compromised.”

A shiver went through her. “But I thought… I thought the soldiers weren’t supposed to kill them.”

“I have no doubt that is the preferred outcome,” Giles said, standing wearily. “The Council is built of researchers. I am certain they would prefer to learn how this, ah, aberration came about, in lieu of simple assassination.”

Dawn crossed her arms angrily. “They’re  _so_  stupid.”

Now, a week later, she still hadn’t revised her opinion. She viciously chomped down on a pretzel and glared at the poker set.

Ant watched her cautiously. “Wanna play again?”

Amanda sighed, fiddling with the stake she now perpetually kept at hand, despite the fact that Buffy and Faith wouldn’t let her patrol with them right now. “We’ve been playing for three hours. Let’s do something else.”

Dawn shrugged. “Movie?”

“Only if Ant doesn’t get to pick.”

Both girls giggled as Ant blushed. “I didn’t know it was that kind of movie,” he mumbled.

It was totally  _that_  kind of movie and – to their complete mortification – Faith had walked in just as they realized it.

Faith just looked between them and the screen with an amused smile. “Kinky, guys. But, if I were you, I’d wait on the orgy for a couple more years.”

They’d stopped borrowing videos from Ant’s brother after that.

“I’ll pick,” Dawn said decisively, abandoning her winnings on the living room floor and heading toward the tv. “Thomas brought over some new stuff yesterday.”

The three of them settled onto the couch, and Ant subtly grabbed her hand. It was sort of clammy, but she didn’t mind.

The whole situation was definitely 100% way beyond stupid, but, okay, it wasn’t all bad. She just hoped that Buffy and the others kicked enough soldier butts soon that the Council would finally give up and leave them all alone.

 

***

 

Matt Patterson had a hell of a headache. There was a fucking mariachi band playing behind his eyes, and probably half a truckload of drunk Russians. And he’d learned his lesson years ago about drinking with either group. And damn, he hadn’t even been drinking this time. This time… his eyes flew open, which he immediately regretted. Searing white light met him, stabbing the backs of his eyes with white-hot needles, and he shut his eyes again with a groan. He brought his fingers up to his head, where a large lump was settled on his temple. Care of a vamp, he remembered. Some fast bastard who looked like an 80’s punk reject obsessed with  _The Matrix_.

Why wasn’t he dead?

Matt drifted in and out of consciousness for some unknown time, until something rattled from above him and dropped next to his head. Squinting his eyes open, he blearily found what looked suspiciously like an MRE and a first aid kit.

“I’d help patch you up,” came a voice from one side, “but since Nguyen tried to take me out at the knees, I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

Matt rolled over unsteadily, blinking at the man who stood just on the other side of some kind of plate glass.

“Finn?” He struggled incredulously to his knees. “What the hell is going on?”

Riley Finn stared back at him, looking pale and tired. There was a large swath of bandage across his neck, with two dots of blood bleeding through. “Just relax, Patterson. Sit back and enjoy the view for a bit, and we’ll get you home.”

Matt eyed the man narrowly. Something was fishy as hell. “Who exactly is ‘we’?” Finn didn’t answer and Matt chuckled darkly as it hit him. “Son of a bitch. You goddamn traitor.”

Finn clenched his jaw. “The situation’s not as briefed. They’re not the hostiles we were told they were.”

“Oh yeah, they’re real friendly. How’s that hickey treating you?”

Finn colored slightly. “That was… a distraction tactic. I asked for it.”

Matt snorted and pulled himself against the wall of whatever hellhole he was now a POW in, finally noticing the other soldiers lining the cells across from him. Jesus Christ, it was like he was back in Cambodia again. Admittedly with less fucking screaming. “Whatever you wanna tell yourself, Finn. Don’t honestly give a rat’s ass. But if I get out of here, make no mistake, you’re a dead man.”

Finn stared at him for a long moment, his face flickering with some conflicted emotion. “I’m trying to make sure you  _do_  get out of here, you jackass.”

Matt shrugged and leaned his head back against his cell wall. “Well, then. Looks like we’ll settle our score if that happens.”

He grinned slightly when Finn turned and left without another word. Swirling his tongue toward his molars, Matt felt around for the implanted tooth Doc Oppie had installed last year. It made him feel like a leashed dog sometimes – knowing Oppie and others had his coordinates at all times. But it was also handy as hell. His grin widened. Still there. Grunting, he crushed down on the molar until a sharp jolt of pain rocketed through his already miserable head, setting off the alarm back at HQ, the clear warning that the unexpected had been encountered, and the mission was in danger of failure. The signal to take more extreme steps to eradicate the targets.

It was probably going to mean his eventual death, but that was the cost of being a soldier. He’d signed away his life three years ago, along with his body’s agency and brain’s synapses and whatever the hell else they’d done to him. That was just war.

And for god and country, he’d sit still while the hellfire rained down.

 

***

 

Willow eyed the sleeping Tara next to her with almost giddy amazement. Tara was here. Naked. With her.

Their coffee date (well, not a date. It wasn’t a date originally. It was a… meeting?) had started off with mucho awkwardness, neither of them really knowing what to say. But then the caffeine had kicked in and Willow’s mouth started doing the Willow blurting thing and one thing led to another and somehow they’d ended up sideways.

There had been a lot of talk about trust rebuilding and taking things slow and all the things Willow had known were going to be a thing – and  _wanted_  to be a thing – so that she could have Tara again. Then Tara had just looked at her and shook her head. For a moment, Willow was sure that meant she’d changed her mind and decided not to give them a chance. And then her girlfriend said the most magical thing instead:

“Can we just skip it? Can… can you just be kissing me now?”

So they had.

Willow softly brushed back a stray hair from Tara’s face, happy relief filling her. “I promise, baby, I’m going to make you so proud from now on.”

 

***

 

Faith collapsed onto Thomas’s bed with a groan. “Ugh, this war situation is kicking my ass.”

Thomas chuckled from beside her, looking all sexy in just pajama bottoms. The man had a killer set of abs. “Your arse still looks smashing to me, luv.”

She turned onto her side with effort and gave him an arch look. “You checking out my ass, T?”

He grinned at her. “Impossible not to, with a fit lady like you.”

Faith snorted. “Fit?”

“Too British? How about ‘gorgeous’ then? ‘Bloody stunning’?”

“Ah, hell. You know I’m going to have to screw you for that.” She rose to all fours and crawled over to him, watching his cock strain against the thin cotton of his pants. Fucking right.

Thomas grabbed her arms and pulled her roughly against him. “How about I screw  _you_  instead, luv?”

“Jesus, T. You know just what a girl likes. Don’t you dare go back to England anytime soon.”

Thomas just laughed and then pulled her into a searing kiss. God damn, the man knew how to work his mouth. She pulled back after a minute, running her hands up and down his abs. “So, your cousin or whoever has got their shit together, right? Because, for all the kinds of shitty I feel, I’m really not sure how B and Spike are still standing.”

“She's my aunt,” Thomas said mildly, “And believe me, she scared the piss out of me as a kid.” He grinned. “Still mostly terrified of her, truth be told.”

“Well, good.” Faith gave him a wicked look. “Maybe, if we’re lucky, she’ll make Travers piss his pants, too.”

 

***

 

Andrea Delancey, Deputy Director General for the British National Crime Agency, eyed the bullish man across from her. She knew his type. The man hadn’t seen the outside of a desk in twenty years, but god forbid if anyone told him he didn’t know the field as well as the most experienced agent out there. He  _was_  the team, after all. The veritable brains of the operation. In his delusional mind, anyway. The reality was that he was mostly fat – muscle turned weak and useless that firmly refused to budge.

Good lord, no wonder Auntie and Uncle were having trouble with this twit.

“Ms. Delancey,” the man – a Mr. Quentin Travers – said in a bored tone, “I am not certain what assistance you think I may be to the NCA. My organization is, I assure you, entirely above board.”

“I believe that that is for  _me_  to decide,” she said sharply, raising a brow and watching Travers grow slightly less pompous, to her immense satisfaction. She’d been told numerous times by (now ex-) employees, that her demeanor was something most similar to that of a ‘frigid unfeeling bitch.’ It had bothered her tremendously as a young professional, and she’d cried no small amount of tears in the far stall of the women’s loo. Now, she simply smiled and moved on. One did not get to be Deputy Director General of the National Crime Agency by being agreeable and quiet and nice.

“It’s just what blokes call a bird when they’re intimidated,” Uncle had said once, with great amusement, tossing Auntie a roguish look. “Used to call your Aunt a bitch all the bloody time, because she’s a right scary woman.” He fixed Andrea with a stern blue gaze as Liz rolled her eyes. “And any tosser who can’t take that kind of woman isn’t worth worrying about.”

There was a reason Elly was the favorite uncle in the family.

Letting Travers stew for a minute, Andrea drew out a thick file and passed it across the table. “For you. I’d review it closely.”

Travers’s expression had turned deliciously anxious. “And this is?”

“The list of every man and woman currently being held captive in Sunnydale, California, until there’s a cease fire.”

Travers’s gaze snapped up, wide-eyed. “I– I beg your pardon?”

Andrea bent forward with well-practiced menace. “Were you aware that there are British citizens being held there?”

“I…” Travers’s eyes flicked between her and the file uncertainly, clearly at a loss of what to reveal.

“You see,” she continued brusquely, “we received some very interesting word from Interpol that your organization has been indirectly conducting warfare against a foreign state. Rather a strange activity for a historical research group, don’t you think?”

Travers at last seemed to gain his bearings through the shock and he puffed up in a strong show of indignancy. “I do not appreciate these outlandish allegations, Ms. Delancey. My organization is, as you say, a simple research group. We have no such nefarious dealings.”

“So your group doesn’t go by the alias of,” Andrea pretended to consult a page in her stack of notes, “The Council of Watchers?”

Travers stared at her for a long moment before sitting back in his chair to regard her with what she was sure was meant to be a show of power. “Ms. Delancey… I would not dream of questioning your, ah,  _inclusion_  into certain realms of knowledge, but I must insist that you consult with the Director General before continuing this line of questioning.”

Andrew squeezed her pen slightly and imagined it was Travers’s bulky neck instead. Then she smiled slightly, with a vicious edge. “Oh? What is it that you feel I am not privy to, Mr. Travers? Might it be your group’s charge of the Vampire Slayer? Or the supernatural realm in general? Or might you be referring to the fact that you misused international resources to initiate a small-scale war effort on American soil? Tell me, is it any of that?”

Watching Quentin Travers blanch a sickly color was the highlight of her day. “I…”

“Did you know, Mr. Travers, that I have the authority to hold you in these offices almost indefinitely, should there be sufficient… reason?”

Travers regarded her silently for a long moment, all the pomposity deflated. “What,” he said with a slight tremble, “can I do to assist you, Ms. Delancey?”

She smiled. “What you  _will_ do is request the recall of each and every organization you contacted.” She leaned back in her chair pointedly and gestured toward the phone on her desk. “Please. I’ll wait.”

Travers picked up the phone after a minute of looking like he would argue with her and dialed. She listened to the conversation closely, but it appeared to be in code. When Travers hung up, he looked tired and irritated. “I have asked for a recall to be sent, but I won’t hear confirmation for at least thirty minutes.”

Andrea rose from her chair. “Well, then. It seems we’ll have time for tea.”

She was, in fact, on her second cup of tea when the phone rang again and she gestured for Travers to answer.

“Ah, yes, Evans. Yes, yes. All then? … What? Say again?” She watched Travers’s eyes widen. “Well, bloody well call them off!”

Andrea set down her tea mug abruptly. What the hell was going on?

“No,” Travers said angrily, “I said to– … too late? What are you…” If it was possible, the man paled further. “I see. Yes, well… try again. Yes, I understand.” He hung up the phone.

Andrea eyed him sharply, trying to ignore the swirling pit of worry rising in her stomach. “Complication?”

Travers stared down at the phone, then back up to her, looking almost shell-shocked. “It’s out of my hands,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t…. it shouldn’t have gone this far.”

Andrew stood abruptly, placing her hands in front of her on the desk. “Mr. Travers, what exactly is out of your hands?”

“There was…” He shook his head, looking dazed. “It seems there was an alarm of sorts sounded.”

“An alarm to trigger what exactly?”

He looked up at her with almost frightening resignation. “The destruction of the entire Sunnydale California hellmouth.”

 

***

 

Robert McMasters checked the plane’s radar again, adjusting altitude slightly. His co-pilot, Jason, was quiet beside him.

“About 100 miles now until Sunnydale,” Robert said evenly, before he could help himself. He had managed to keep him mouth shut for the first 1,400 miles of the trip, but missions like this always wound him up tight with too much silence.

Jason looked up from his controls briefly and nodded. He was a middle-aged guy, barely greying at the temples. At this point, Robert barely remembered what it was like to not have gray hair, and he was equally envious of Jason’s youth and annoyed by it. The kid was a seasoned pilot – no doubt there – but he hadn’t even been alive when Truman dropped the bombs. Didn’t really get the magnitude of their mission. Didn’t remember Little Boy and Fat Boy wrecking whole goddamn generations.

Not that their load was atomic, but it was close enough. Close enough to wipe the nowhere town of Sunnydale, California straight off the map. He knew the newspapers were already printing the government’s explanation: “Plane Malfunction Creates National Tragedy.”

He didn’t know what the real reason was for an entire town being wiped off the map, but whatever it was had a whole lot of a high clearance types in a tizzy.

What he did know was that he was the man who was going to make it happen.

 

***

 

“Seriously, is every bad guy taking the night off, Elly?”

Spike gave her an amused look as they stepped through Sunnydale Cemetery, shoulder to shoulder. “Think Lawson’s crew must’ve already swept through, pet.”

“Damnit.”

His cool hand found her fingers and squeezed slightly. “Relax, Buffy. You’re wound up tighter than a bloody bowstring. Our Bit’s got it handled.”

Buffy exhaled a noisy breath. “I know.”

It didn’t make the waiting any easier.

One of the benefits of a gigantic family, at least, was that several of them were prominent government officials. After a few weeks of strategizing, one of their Bits – Andrea – had managed to schedule a meeting with Quentin Travers on the supposed behalf of the agency she worked for.

The attacks didn’t seem to be lagging and the Initiative cells were all but full, which meant the ground warfare had to start coming to an end. Mathilde and Albert had been in favor of simply destroying the Council, which was honestly more tempting that it should have been, but… well, it wouldn’t stop the Sunnydale invasion. It was too late for that; there were too many other players on the board. According to Riley, he had everyone from US government special ops to South African mercenaries in the cells.

There was no real guarantee that Travers would bow to their Bit’s subterfuge, but they had to try.

The witches had been cooking up all sorts of plan B’s in case Travers wouldn’t call off the dogs, but all of them were dangerous and none of them were going to convince the Council that their Slayers hadn’t turned evil. She wasn’t sure what would, honestly, but that was a problem for another day. For now, it was time to make sure Sunnydale stopped being a warzone.

“It’ll be fine,” Buffy said evenly, forcing a smile onto her face. “Andrea will scare the crap out of Travers and get him to stop all of this and it’ll be fine.”

Spike chuckled and leaned over to press a soft kiss to her lips. “It will be.” He frowned slightly then, glancing up with a distant look on his face.

“Elly?”

Spike shook his head, still looking up. “Odd noise. Sounds almost like…” His face grew slack. “Bloody Christ.”

Buffy’s phone rang and she fumbled in her jacket for it, quickly flipping it open. “Andrea? How’d it go?”

“Auntie, you and Elly have to get out of Sunnydale right now.” Andrea’s voice was shaky and grim.

“Wha– Ah!” Spike tackled her to the ground, the phone flying from her hand. “Elly, what the hell?!”

Her husband didn’t immediately answer. He covered her body with his own instead, his arms so tight around her on the cold ground that she could barely breathe.

“Buffy,” he whispered hoarsely, “I love you.”

And then the sky lit up with fire.


	32. Behind the Lines

“You two can stop with the Cold War duck and cover act anytime. It’s sweet, but the effectiveness… not so much.”

Buffy’s eyes snapped open. Burning. She was burning. The scream of pain had died in her throat, obliterated before it could be sounded. And now… she blinked in confusion. It was dark and cool, and Spike was still whole above her, his arms banded painfully around her torso as he caged her in against his chest. Her husband’s entire body had been tensed before – although she hadn’t even felt it in the last seconds, which was more terrifying – but Spike stiffened even further at the words now assaulting them. Demonic guise firmly in place, he whirled off of her with a growl to face the new threat, allowing Buffy to see where they were.

She was back in her Paris bedroom from fifty years ago, lying prone on the bed. Again. So, apparently she was dead. Again. Whistler was leaning against the opposite wall, raising a brow at her. “That didn’t go so well, kiddo.”

Buffy huffed as she pulled herself to a stand, unable to help the crawling shiver of disconnect at her body still being intact. Getting blown up was definitely faster than dying by gunshot wound, but she didn’t really think the few seconds of agony were worth it. She fixed a hard, sarcastic smile on the Powers agent. “Didn’t go well? Gee, you think?”

Spike stood suddenly still and silent near her, looking from her to Whistler in rapid succession, his demonic visage slipping away. “We’re dead?”

“Deader than a doornail,” Whistler said dryly.

Buffy bit her lip. “Elly, this is Whistler, the PTB agent I told you about. We’re in some kind of limbo-y space.”

Whistler shook his head. “Might have wanted to try that political maneuver a bit sooner.”

“I didn’t expect them to drop a  _bomb_  on us!”

“Bureaucracy’s a tricky thing. All comes down to numbers…. time, money, acceptable loss.”

Spike was staring at them, his voice a whisper. “We’re… we’re in limbo?”

Whistler turned a questioning look on him, and then – seeing his stunned face – turned to Buffy. “Something tells me your vampire isn’t handling this so well, Slayer.”

Buffy reached out to her husband, gently touching his arm. “Elly? Are you okay? I know it’s way strange...” Then she paused, feeling the sudden weight of horrible realization fall on her. “Oh  _god_. That bomb wasn’t just dropped on Spike and me, was it? Everyone... the town…”

“Kablooey,” Whistler provided seriously.

Buffy’s knees gave out and she was halfway to the floor when Spike’s arms grabbed her, tugging her firmly against him. He was breathing in sharp, short bursts; if he’d been human, she’d have called it hyperventilating. It was probably terribly similar to her own breathing. She tucked herself into the soft cotton of his tee like a life raft, trembling, her mind flashing to their family and friends and allies in heartbreaking succession. All gone. All because of her. But that wasn’t really even the worst; she’d let an entire town of oblivious, innocent people die, too. Thousands of people were just… gone. “Oh my god. I– I did this. I got everyone killed.”

Spike snarled viciously. “ _You didn’t do a bloody thing!_ ” She saw him throw a black glare at Whistler. “And you better not keep her here, you useless sod, or I promise I’ll end your miserable existence in the most painful way possible.”

Both Buffy and Whistler stared at him. “Elly, what–”

Spike growled, low and dangerous, his entire chest vibrating against hers. “You let her into heaven now. She doesn’t deserve this. Take me to whatever hell you like – heap her sins onto me, I don’t give a fuck. Have enough of them already, a few more’s not going to make sod all difference.  _But don’t you dare keep her out of heaven_.”

Buffy’s throat constricted as sharp, understanding tears threatened the edges of her eyes. Spike wasn’t worried about being dead at all. He was worried about  _her_. Like always. “Oh, Elly…” She swallowed and turned to face Whistler, chin held high. “It’s my choice. You’re taking me wherever Spike is going.”

Spike stiffened abruptly and whirled her to face him again, hands tight on her upper arms. “ _No, you’re bloody well not!_ ”

“It’s my afterlife, William,” she said softly, gazing into his panicked blue eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.”

He stared at her with an expression of such incredible love and anguish that she quivered with it. “Buffy… god, no. I’ll take any bit of torture for eternity but that. Christ, anything but that. Need to know you’re safe harping up in heaven.”

Whistler regarded them steadily for a moment, and then lifted his eyes heavenward in a clear ‘why me’ gesture. “Are you two done with the  _Lifetime_  movie drama yet? Time’s a little short, so I don’t recommend all the yapping.”

They both stared at him. Spike recovered first, with narrowed eyes. “Just what are you on about?”

“Gotta hand it to your redheaded witch,” Whistler said with an approving nod, “when she messes up, it’s spectacular. Lucky for us, it’s in a good way for the moment.”

Buffy frowned for a moment, then realization hit like a freight train, and giddiness nearly made her lightheaded. “We’re looped!”

“Well,  _you_  are, kiddo. William here is just along for the ride.” Whistler gave her an irritated look. “Didn’t feel like getting up close and personal with the wall this time.”

She couldn’t help but grin at that. “Smart demon.”

Spike looked incredibly suspicious. “Right convenient timing.”

Whistler scoffed. “Convenient? No, it’s a headache. Do you have any idea how much of a thin line we have to straddle for this kind of thing? Too direct and we knock everything out of balance. Gotta play by the rules. Leaves us with stuff like Slayer dreams, and snow on Christmas, and geese on the damn runway that delay the bomber just enough for the dropping to coincide with the Slayer's next round of  _Groundhog Day_.”

Buffy laughed a bit breathlessly, her mind whirling. “So, how long will we have until the bomb goes off?”

“Twenty-two minutes, give or take a few seconds.”

Spike snorted beside her, looking suddenly more energetic and relaxed as he switched gears. “Like a bleeding action film.”

“Yeah, and I’ve about had enough of it,” Buffy grumbled. She pinned Whistler with a hard stare. “This is it, you hear me? After this, Spike and I are done.”

Whistler held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, no one made you go back to Sunnydale, sweetheart.”

Buffy sighed. “No, you didn’t. We did that part all on our own. And in some other dimension, we didn’t even do that.” She paused. “Do you know why? What was different there?”

Whistler shrugged. “You two made a different plan. Sent a letter to your sister after the jump and met her in L.A., then scampered off. Hellmouth’s a little worse for wear, but that’s not really a shock.”

Spike lifted a brow. “Worse than blown to smithereens?”

“Ah… not that bad.” The Powers agent shrugged. “But you do actually blow it up on purpose in a few other dimensions.”

“Why the hell would we do that?”

Whistler nodded at Buffy. “Your other half’s met that reason. Well, one of them.”

Buffy blinked. “Huh? You mean… the other Buffy’s resurrection?”

“Bingo. Pretty nasty mess, as it turns out.”

“Geez, apparently.” Buffy grimaced. “You couldn’t have warned us about the stupid bomb in _this_ dimension?”

“Wasn’t a sure thing, Slayer. The future rarely is. William here could’ve killed the soldier who set the alarm–”

“I bloody well should have,” Spike growled.

“Or your Delancey girl might’ve gotten an earlier meeting with Travers,” Whistler finished mildly. “It’s all about possibilities.”

Buffy frowned. “But Willow…”

“Your witch went to a  _possibility_  of your future.” The demon agent shrugged. “Luckily, it ended up mostly as advertised. Some different choices and it might’ve been a whole other scenario.”

Well, that was a terrifying and weird thought. Apparently Willow had been farther out of her depth than any of them had known. “And now I have twelve more chances to make a different scenario,” Buffy murmured wearily.

Spike stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms tight around her waist, his lips at her ear. “You can do it, luv. There’s not a more resourceful woman in any dimension.”

“Not even some other version of me?”

He chuckled lowly. “Wouldn’t even come close.”

Buffy sank back into his chest, closing her eyes as he ran cool lips over his bite marks, both of them uncaring of their audience. Screw it. It was maybe the last time they’d have this. “I love you so much, Elly.”

“Love you, too, Buffy. More than anything.”

Her eyes blinked open to regard Whistler, who was carefully looking away from them. “Whistler, if this doesn’t work… if we all stay dead, you’re going to make sure I go wherever Spike goes.”

Spike stilled, his arms stiffening. “Buffy, no.”

She didn’t reply, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. Instead, she watched as Whistler’s gaze went distant, and he seemed to listen to something. After a moment, he gave her a small, wry smile. “That won’t be necessary, kiddo. Seems the bosses don’t want the headache. When your times come, William here will go with you.”

Spike drew in a sharp breath behind her. “Go with her?”

“That’s what I’m told.”

Now tears really were blinding her vision. Buffy turned in Spike’s arms, desperate for his mouth on hers. He kissed her fiercely, both of them panting and trembling.

“Coming with you,” he whispered hoarsely between kisses.

“With me,” she agreed, with a breathless sob. She wasn’t going to lose him. She would get Spike forever. “With me.”

And then time restarted.


	33. As You Were

“– can always try Restfield next?”

Buffy found herself suddenly back in Sunnydale, finishing her route with Spike in Shady Side cemetery. He was looking at her questioningly. “Or Sunnydale cemetery?”

Buffy shook her head as she gained her bearings, breathing in the cool night air. Air that would soon be burnt and broken. “I’m looped, Elly.”

Her husband’s expression curled up into a lecherous grin. “Are you now? Wanna have a nice shag in the Saint Marie tomb?”

Buffy rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that overtook her own lips. “As fun as that sounds, we have about twenty-two minutes until Sunnydale gets blown up, so we really need to move it along.”

Spike stared at her for a moment, his mouth slightly open. “What…” Then, “Fuck, Buffy, you’re serious.”

“As an, um, bomb.”

“Christ.” He glanced around sharply, as if a bomber might pop out of the bushes at any moment. “Where from?”

“A plane. Apparently one of the captured soldiers got word out that things didn’t look so good for the visiting team.”

Spike took in a sharp, unnecessary breath. “Bloody hell. Should have just killed them all.” He eyed her seriously. “What loop are you on, pet?”

“Just the second. We have time.”

“Very sodding little of it,” he muttered. Then he straightened and held out his hand to her, tossing his axe unceremoniously to the ground. “Right then. Where to?”

Buffy took his pro-offered hand with grateful relief. “We have to get to Willow. We’ll call everyone else on the way.”

 

***

 

When they reached the City Hall of Records, they had seventeen minutes left. By the time they roused a very embarrassed Willow and Tara from their make-up situation and explained everything to them and the Paris coven, they were down to nine minutes.

Willow and the Paris coven’s leader, Jeanette, an older woman with white hair nearly down to her waist, traded quick looks.

Willow swallowed heavily. “Um, so we… we need a gigantic shield of some kind to cover Sunnydale?”

Buffy looked at her apologetically. “And fast.”

“Shields up, Captain,” Xander said with forced cheer, having arrived a minute ago with Anya, Giles, and the kids.

Phoebe, a middle-aged woman with shocking bright red nails and eagle eyes, hummed thoughtfully. “We already have this building shielded. It’s to hide, not deflect, but it could give us a base to start with?”

“But… there is simply not enough time,” another witch – Sophie – added.

“It does not seem that we have much choice in the matter,” Giles said wearily, tugging off his glasses and waving them around for emphasis.

Anya nodded furiously. “I don’t want to die. We should try anything.”

Tara frowned slightly, her mien serious and worried, chasing away the adorably flustered look she’d had after being found with her apparently now-again girlfriend. “We…. we’ll need a lot of power for this. More than we have now.”

Buffy bit her lip and glanced at her phone, her stomach dropping. “We have six minutes, guys.”

“Not enough time,” Willow echoed, her brows drawing steeply together. Then her eyes lit up. “But we’ll have more chances!”

“Won’t help if we have this run-around every bloody loop,” Spike growled, tugging Buffy close, his nostrils flaring. The message was clear: if the world was going to end, she wasn’t going without him. Buffy leaned deeply into his embrace.

“But we might not have to,” Willow said excitedly. She looked straight at Buffy. “It’s just you looping, so the spell will have to be on you.”

Buffy checked her phone again. “Less than five, Wil. Whatever you’re going to do, you’ll want to do it fast.”

“All we need is a trigger program.” At everyone’s blank looks, the redhead added, “Like in coding?”

Buffy shrugged helplessly. “No?”

Willow started pacing excitedly, hands waving. “Okay, so a trigger command associates itself with an already-created program and is associated with an object a-and then it identifies the object event and executes a program. Make sense?”

Xander held up an authoritative finger. “If you were going for ‘didn’t understand a word’, then… yep, nailed it.”

Willow deflated. “Oh.”

Dawn scrunched up her nose. “Can you try telling us in, like, English?”

“Preferably using really tiny words,” Xander added.

“Um, when Buffy starts a new loop, we could trigger certain information to psychically go out, so that everyone kind of – poof! – knows what’s going on without having to be told.”

Xander blinked. “Whoa, you can do that?”

“I think?”

Jeanette nodded. “Splendid idea, Willow. Yes, I believe we can do that.” She looked back at her coven, and started relaying information in rapid-fire French.

Faith, Thomas, Albert and Mathilde, and Lawson and his fledges entered the building just then. Faith looked at the crew with a raised brow as the witches frantically collected themselves into a spellcasting circle.

“So, we in time for the end of the world, B?”

Buffy shrugged wryly. “Barely.”

Dawn pulled herself away from where she was clutching Ant and buried herself against Buffy’s torso. She was trembling. “We’re going to die soon? Is it going to hurt?”

Buffy felt her chest clench tight and she wrapped Dawn closer into her arms, her chin resting on the top of her sister’s bowed head. The feeling of almost overwhelmingly helplessness was invading her brain. Everyone was going to die painfully and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. “It’s not real, okay, Dawnie? This won’t have happened soon.”

Spike subtly shifted so that he was directly beside Dawn and caught Buffy’s gaze. He leaned close and nuzzled Buffy’s ear, his voice low and urgent. “Not going to let her go out like that, alright?”

Buffy drew back to regard him in confusion, then saw the dark determination in his eyes. She nodded.

The witches finished their spellcasting about thirty seconds before time was up, a strange bright light swirling out between the women and coming to rest around Buffy in a soft halo.

“C’est fini,” Jeanette intoned with satisfaction _. It is complete._

“Thank you all.” Buffy sighed. “Hopefully this will help our chances of survival.”

“Yay for survival,” Willow said weakly. “Next time.”

Thomas gave a sharp bark of laughter. “That is the strangest optimism I’ve ever heard.”

Buffy swallowed. “It’s all we’ve got, Bit.”

This time, Buffy knew the bomb was coming because all the vampires began looking at the ceiling. Her cell phone rang.

“Time is up,” Albert said simply.

Spike snapped Dawn’s neck. And then everything was consumed in fire.

 

***

 

“Well, that was interesting,” came Whistler’s dry voice.

Buffy was again lying flat on her Paris apartment bed. Spike was sprawled beside her, his blue eyes blinking open with a startled growl.

“It’s okay, Elly. We’re safe.” Her lips drew up in a grin as she sat up and regarded Whistler. “You brought him again.”

“Yeah, well, happy Slayer equals non-violent Slayer.”

“Thank you.”

Spike raised a brow as he sat up and carefully surveyed their surroundings, his gaze resting eventually on the Powers agent, hard and intent. “We’re dead then?”

Whistler sighed. “Yeah, and – before you get your underwear in a twist – no, I’m not holding your wife hostage in limboland. You’ll both go to heaven eventually and yada-yada.”

Spike gaped at him, then turned to Buffy with bright disbelief and vulnerability. “Buffy?”

She smiled gently at him. “Yeah, Elly. We’re going to be together.”

He drew in a sharp breath and then tugged her across the bed and into his lap. He was trembling. “Together,” he muttered, nuzzling into her hair.

She nodded, kissing his lips sweetly, finding herself suddenly no less affected by the news than she had been the first time. “I love you.”

“Love you, Buffy.” He looked over at Whistler. “Got a few minutes?”

Whistler lifted a brow. “About seven.”

“Right then. Any wisdom you need to impart, demon?”

Whistles frowned. “Not at the moment.”

“Great. Turn away then, mate. Going to love up my wife.”

Whistler sighed. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

Buffy laughed.

 

***

 

“– can always try Restfield next?” Spike stood next to her in Shady Side, brow arched in question. “Or–” There was a bright flash of light and he blinked, looking troubled and baffled. “What the…”

Buffy touched his arm gently. “Elly?”

He frowned deeply. “There’s a bomb?”

Oh thank god, the trigger had worked.  _Willow, I could kiss you!_  Buffy breathed a deep sigh of relief and nodded. “Yep. We need to get to the Hall of Records.”

“I heard, luv. Alright, off we go. The others are meeting us there?”

“Should be? This is the first time with the psychic information thing.”

“Guess we’ll find out then.” He grinned. “Race you there.” Then he took off running and Buffy, shaking her head, followed her absurd vampire husband.

This time when they reached the Hall, the witches were already congregated in the central space. Both Willow and Tara looked mussed but presentable.

“Bomb squad at your service,” Willow said as they entered, with an overly perky smile, tight with nerves.

The others filtered in a few minutes later, in various stages of grim and nonplussed.

“Can anyone say ‘overkill’?” Xander said as they arrived. “What’s with the hellmouth heading straight for WWIII?”

Buffy shrugged. “Bureaucracy?”

“Bloody fools,” Giles muttered as he strode over to the witches and busied himself with helping.

Buffy found herself taking a leaf out of Spike’s usual book and pacing across the hall as the vampire in question comforted Dawn, Amanda, and Ant. So little time. There was so little time. How were they ever going to find a way to survive?

“Ten minute warning,” she said softly, after a few minutes. “How are we doing?”

Sophie sighed. “We lack a source with enough power. We can attempt to hold it using our energies alone, but against a blast of this magnitude…”

Spike glanced up from where he was whispering to Thomas. “Might as well try, yeah?”

The witches exchanged looks.

“We will try it,” Jeanette said finally.

The witches, Giles, and Anya held themselves in a wide circle, chanting lowly. A bright silver net appeared inside the circle, slowly rising above their heads and widening on all sides, looking nothing so much like an umbrella opening. It was barely at the edges of the building boundaries when half the witches fell to their knees, panting.

“It’s too large,” Anya muttered, visibly sweating as her hand gripped Willow’s. “We should just protect the building.”

“No,” Buffy said sharply. “We’re not letting all the townspeople die.”

“We can do it,” Willow gasped determinedly. Her eyes flared and a strange glow overtook her, turning her hair to white. The silver net expanded beyond their immediate vision.

All the vampires looked toward the ceiling. Buffy’s cell phone started ringing.

Buffy swallowed roughly. “Willow? Is it…”

“Still not enough,” was Phoebe’s strained murmur.

Crap crap crap. “Elly.” Buffy looked meaningfully at Dawn and Spike nodded sharply.

There was an odd breaking sound, like glass shattering, and then guttural gasps from the spellcasters as the shield splintered, breaking into a million pieces of light.

Spike snapped Dawn’s neck. And then everything was consumed in fire.

 

***

 

“If you two start making out again, he’s staying put next time,” was Whistler’s greeting the third time.

Buffy laughed weakly from her prone position on the bed, feeling Spike roll over and pull her tight against him. “We’re dead, pet?”

“For the moment.”

 

***

 

The fourth through eighth loops ended pretty much the same way as all the others before. The witches tried different ways of expanding the shield, but making it strong enough to withstand a bomb blast at the same time seemed beyond the coven’s limits. The farthest they managed to stretch the netting was several blocks in either direction of the Hall. It stopped the blast for about twenty seconds before breaking.

By loop nine, Buffy felt panic overtake her. For all that she could help move events along, the solution had to be magical, and she just wasn’t magical girl. She was brawn and brains and blood.

Buffy paused mid-step in the middle of the Hall, her eyes widening. “Blood. Oh my god.”

Spike looked over at her with a furrowed brow from where he was conversing with Lawson. “What’s that, luv?”

Buffy just shook her head and motioned to the room. “Blood magic. It’s strong, right?”

The vampires all exchanged amused looks, and Lawson smiled slightly. “Strongest thing there is, General, far as I’ve seen.”

Willow looked up from where she was in heavy conversation with Tara and Jeanette. “Blood? Like yours?”

“Like all of ours,” she corrected. “Can we use it?”

Anya started nodding vigorously. “That would strengthen the spell considerably.”

Spike sighed. “It’s always about the sodding blood.”

“It is power tied to dark magic,” Sophie protested.

Mathilde just laughed, her face rippling into her unfairly pretty demonic visage. “When half the donors are dark creatures, is not so strange an option, no?”

There was a moment of silence, then Faith drew out a pocket knife and pressed it to her palm. “Just tell me where to bleed, and we’ll get this show on the road.”

It all happened quickly after that, each of them slashing their palms in the center of the spellcasting circle until the tile ran red.

Xander winced as he held his palm parallel to the floor, blood dripping down. His mouth was creased in a flat line as he looked at some indeterminate point in front of him. “If I don’t look, I won’t pass out,” he muttered, when he caught Buffy staring at him.

She raised a brow. “You didn’t have to cut yourself, you know, Xan.”

He gave her a lopsided smile. “Hey, what’re friends for? I may not have super powers, but my blood is full of all sorts of good stuff.”

Willow threw him a mirthful look. “Red stuff?”

“Red stuff,” he confirmed.

Dawn held out her hand next. “I want to help, too.”

Spike growled softly and snatched the knife from Xander’s grip. “Over my dust, Bit.”

Dawn put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I’m an ancient key, Spike. My blood opened a crazy portal for a stupid skanky hell god, in case your dumb old-person brain forgot the whole reason you and my sister are together.” Her chin jutted up pugnaciously. “You  _need_  me.”

Spike paused and then tossed Buffy a rueful smile. “She gets that bullheadedness from you, luv.”

Buffy arched a brow. “Oh _, I’m_  the only one that’s bullheaded? What kind of delusional world do you live in, William?”

When Spike’s eyes narrowed dangerously, Thomas grinned and threw Xander a conspiratorial look. “If you can imagine, the family hasn’t taken bets on Auntie and Uncle offing each other in years.”

Spike’s expression soured. “Very funny, Bit.”

Dawn tapped her foot impatiently. “Still waiting on a knife here. End of the world ringing any bells?”

Amanda came up beside them. “I want to help, too. Potential Slayer power should have some kind of snap and crackle to it, right?”

Ant gave them all a nervous smile as he joined the two girls. “I bet a little more demon blood can’t hurt.”

Spike gave the three kids a long look, then silently handed Dawn the knife. “Trio of mini Scoobies, the lot of you,” he said dryly.

Xander grinned at the kids. “Guess that’s your official welcome to the mystery team, guys.” He turned that same grin back on a snorting Spike. “And don’t even pretend you didn’t get the Scooby induction already, Captain Peroxide. Pretty sure a century of good deeds is an automatic ‘in’.”

“Automatic,” Willow echoed, flicking a grin to them in between conversation with the other witches.

Spike just sighed, although a smile was haunting the edges of his lips. It was funny to think that, once upon a time, that kind of assertion would have made her husband nearly apoplectically indignant, likely initiating some kind of rant regarding his non-existent evilness.

Buffy nuzzled his ear mischievously. “I’ll ask Clem’s friend to make you a t-shirt, Elly.”

“Very funny, pet.”

She giggled. “I bet it can even come in black, as a hearkening back to your Big Bad days.”

He growled slightly and tugged her tight against his chest. “You watch it.”

“Or what?”

He smirked at her. “Still got a few minutes until hellfire and whatnot, don’t we? Pretty sure I can shag you stunned by then.”

“That’s your solution to everything.”

“That or killing summat,” he agreed easily. He waggled his brows. “Not heard you complaining in the last century.”

She huffed out a little breath. “Well, I kind of can’t when they’re a couple of my favorite things to do with you.”

Spike’s smile was soft and loving. “Close as a demon like me can get to heaven, doing either with you.”

“Um. About that.” Buffy took a deep breath and told him about the Powers’ promise.

While Spike was digesting her reveal with his now-standard exclamations of awe and disbelief, the witches, Giles, and Anya had again taken their spellcasting positions and were yet again raising the shield. The usual netting was tinged red this time, all the blood on the floor rearranging itself into shimmering symbols in some unknown language. This shield went up much faster than the others, spreading with crackling ferocity.

“A-almost there,” Tara whispered in between spell verses, her voice strained and her arms trembling.

The vampires all looked at the ceiling. Buffy’s phone rang.

Buffy felt all the non-spellcasters come up beside her and Spike, and they silently waited together, hopeful for the first time that they might not die.

There was an astonishingly loud percussive boom as the bomb hit the shield, and the spellcasters almost simultaneously fell to their knees, arms still linked. Willow was glowing like a strange white star, the color now tinged through with shots of red.

For a long moment, there was nothing but quiet chanting. Then a grouped cry of distress was immediately followed by the now-familiar sound of glass shattering.

There wasn’t fire this time, but instead a roiling mass of intense heat, and the building roof came down around them. Spike had her rolled under his body nearly before she could blink, as timber and stone buried them under. Something heavy hit the side of her temple and she was washed into darkness.

 

***

 

“– can always try Restfield next?” Spike stood next to her in Shady Side, brow arched in question. “Or–” There was a bright flash of light and he blinked, looking troubled and baffled. “What the…”

Buffy stumbled slightly in her steps as she ran through the last minute. What had happened? The roof had caved and then…

Stunned, giddy disbelief made her gasp. “We didn’t die! I mean, not that a roof falling on us was great, but it worked! It worked, Elly!”

Spike was looking entirely lost. “Buffy?”

“Sorry,” she said, pressing a light kiss to her husband’s cheek. “You got the memo about the bomb?”

“Yeah, luv.”

“Great. Let’s go. I’ll explain the rest on the way.”

This time when Buffy explained about the blood and started the donation process, she opened an entire vein, to Spike’s cry of dismay. “It needs to be stronger,” she told him stubbornly.

Spike snarled and tugged her gushing wrist to his lips, licking the wound closed with great ferocity. “That was plenty,” he muttered, his eyes flashing amber at her. Though he hadn't said it outright, she sort of knew it would probably be decades before Spike could see her bleeding and not think of her dead by the front door. Still, it couldn't be helped; the end of the world was at stake.

Lawson took the knife next and perfunctorily slashed his arm open from palm to elbow. “Let us take care of the heavy lifting, General. Blood loss won’t do a vamp any permanent harm. That whole undead creature of the night thing we have.”

Mathilde and Albert came up beside him, slashing their wrists with the edges of their fangs.

“Oui,” Albert agreed smoothly. “As he says.”

Then, to Buffy’s surprise, Lawson’s little family of shy fledges did the same. One of them – some mid-thirties looking woman who went by two names (although Buffy couldn’t for the life of her remember what they were) – gave Buffy a proud, sad smile. “My family – my human one – still lives in Sunnydale. This is for my boys.” Her eyes flashed amber. “And a nice ‘fuck you’ to the other guys.”

One of the other fledges – a young, lanky guy with haunted eyes – looked at her with heavy, determined anger as he violently slashed his wrist. “This life is mine. They’re not taking it.”

Buffy just nodded and repeated grimly, “They’re not taking it.”

This time around, the shield held for several minutes after the blast. Giles turned to her with fierce eyes, a muscle popping in his jaw in between chanting verses. “Get everyone out, my dear. In case the ceiling falls again.”

Buffy stared at him. “But you guys can’t leave.”

“Out,” Tara reiterated.

“Out,” Jeanette said as well.

“But–”

“The witches can take care of themselves,” Spike said shortly, herding everyone out the doors and into the street.

It was incredibly surreal to be outside. The air was cool, but everything was bathed in eerie red light as the net stretched just above the rooftop buildings, like the casing of the world's biggest snow globe. Except, instead of the snow swirling inside with them, fire was roiling on the outside, pressing against the barrier with vicious intensity.

“This is so trippy,” Dawn said quietly, craning her neck up.

“Wicked creepy,” Faith agreed softly.

Spike shook his head in awe. “Never seen anything like this.”

“Let’s hope we never do again,” Buffy said dryly. “At least, outside this looping situation.”

“I wonder how Sunnydale will try to explain this one,” Xander added thoughtfully.

Thomas laughed. “Unseasonal aurora?”

“Nope,” Buffy said lightly. “It’s just part of the monster movie special effects.”

By the time the shield shattered, the worst of the blast had been absorbed, but a large gush of blistering heat still flooded in, stealing all the breath from Buffy’s chest. Before she could even quite acknowledge what had happened, the world faded to black.

 

***

 

The thirteenth loop was terrifying. This was it; the absolute end. And while the last three loops had apparently ended in unconsciousness for her instead of death, there was no assurance that the others had fared as well. And, anyway, unconsciousness wasn’t exactly the most desirable ending.

When it came time to draw blood for the spell, Buffy sliced a long gash up her forearm and clenched a fist, letting her blood gush onto the floor while she stared down Spike’s furious gaze. “You can close it in a minute,” she said between clenched teeth, above the searing, stinging pain and sudden lightheadedness.

Spike’s nostrils flared. “Remind me to be brassed at you if we survive this.”

“Deal.”

A few minutes later, they were out in the street again, watching the fire twist viciously in the sky as it battled mercilessly against blood-red netting. Silently, they all linked hands and watched the suppressed fury of the almost-end of the hellmouth and Sunnydale. Dawn was on Buffy’s right and Spike on her left, both holding her with a grip that threatened to break bones.

“Prettiest almost-apocalypse yet,” Buffy said lightly.

Dawn wrinkled her nose. “That’s our blood doing that up there.  _So_  weird. And kind of gross.”

“And kind of cool,” Ant added.

“Totally cool,” Faith agreed. She turned to Buffy with a slight smile. “Not a bad way to end your slaying career, eh, B?”

Buffy laughed weakly. “I'd way rather be punching something right now, but as long as we all get out alive, I’ll give it two thumbs up.”

By the time the shield splintered for the last time, the fire had abated entirely and a strong, blistering breeze was all that came sweeping through. It was hot, but not hot enough to burn out the oxygen in the air – just enough to make them all cough helplessly, and send Buffy’s eyes watering. When she caught her breath again, Buffy glanced around abruptly, noting that the Hall’s roof was thankfully intact.

She swallowed a relieved sob. They'd done it. They'd actually survived, and kept Sunnydale and its citizens around to see another day.

When the coven and contributing Scoobies came stumbling out of the building, looking drained but incredibly proud, Xander wrapped up Anya in an exuberant kiss, to the ex-demon’s clear delight.

“Xander! I thought you didn’t like it when we engaged in foreplay in public.”

Xander just grinned widely at his fiancée, looking happier than Buffy could remember her friend looking in recent memory (the pre-jump memories were much fuzzier, but she didn’t think they had been much different). “Special occasion, Ahn.”

Looking puzzled but pleased, Anya happily let herself get swept up in another full-body kiss.

Spike chuckled, wrapping his arms around Buffy from behind as Dawn ran off to hug Ant. “Think Harris and Anyanka are going to be alright.”

“Did you think they wouldn’t be, Elly?”

“Would’ve put money against them even making it up the aisle a few months back. Now they’re prolly more likely to just drive each other around the bend until god knows when.”

Buffy snorted. “That’s been us for a century, William, and we’ve done okay.”

He kissed her temple softly. “So we have, luv.”

Willow came over to them, dazed but beaming. “We did it, didn’t we? I mean… whoa.”

Buffy laughed. “Yeah. Couldn’t have done it without you, Wil.”

Willow just shrugged modestly, glancing around at the celebrating group. “It took a village.” Her gaze returned to Buffy, looking wistful. “I keep thinking I’ll get used to this whole end of the world thing, make it old hat and stuff, but it’s all adrenaline-y every time. And I never know what to do  _after_  we win. It’s always just kind of… over.”

Buffy smiled slightly, sardonically. “How would you like something to do this time?”

“Huh?”

“Are you up for teleporting a couple people?”

Willow blinked. “Um, I might need Tara’s help – feeling a little drained – but sure.” She paused. “Where are you going?”

“Spike and I are going to have a chat with a certain Council leader.”


	34. All's Well That Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I could truthfully continue this story onward for likely ever, but… all good things must come to an end. For now. There will be plenty of Liz and Elly one-shots in the future, but this is the last novel-length piece I have planned.

In the end, Willow and Tara ended up teleporting four of them to London – Buffy, Spike, Giles, and Faith – and it was worth it for all of them, if for no other reason than to see the bug-eyed look on Quentin Travers’s face when they popped into Andrea’s office.

Andrea was facing out from her desk when they arrived, her thin form standing stiffly in that quintessential British-y way that just screamed suppressed emotions. Her hands rose to her mouth in a relieved gasp. “Auntie! Uncle!”

Travers, for his part, barely had time to turn around in his seat (giving the aforementioned bug-eyed look) before Spike had him slammed against the wall with a grip that was likely just shy of breaking the Councilman’s neck.

Buffy sighed. “Elly, that’s not going to help anything.”

Her husband just growled. “I beg to bloody differ.” His eyes flicked to her with dark solemnity as Travers slowly strangled under his hands, feet dangling. “Give me one good reason not to kill this waste of life, Buffy.”

She started to open her mouth and then stopped. Oh god, did she have a reason? She had to find one – if nothing else, Travers was no use to them dead. “I–” she began, then halted abruptly as, all at once, her adrenaline crashed and the full weight of the past hours nearly swamped her under. All the hopelessness of failing over and over again. Watching her sister’s face slacken and her body fall limply to the ground after Spike snapped her neck. Feeling the heat of fire that burnt her skin and bones to ash before her pain receptors decided they were dead. That she was dead.

Words failed her.

She saw Faith and Giles exchange a look, but neither one said a word; Faith looked slightly smug and Giles’s lips were pursed, his eyes cold.

“He’ll leave a terrible mess, Uncle,” Andrea said finally, calmly.

Spike stared at their Bit for a long moment, then gave a short, humorless bark of laughter and flung Travers to the ground. His lip curled as he regarded the gasping and red-faced man. “Lucky for you, you worthless tosser, I don’t plan on making my niece get corpse smell out of the carpet.”

Travers’s gaze darted between them all. “I don’t–”

Giles snorted. “Quentin, might I advise that feigned ignorance is not the best route to adhere to at the present moment?"

There was a breath of silence, then a wheezed, “It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t supposed to get so far.” Travers turned his attention to Buffy. “You must… must believe me.”

Buffy swallowed roughly. “Oh, I believe you,” she said lowly. “But I’ll never forgive you for it.”

Travers closed his eyes in a short blink. “So then I am to assume that the Sunnydale hellmouth is... no more?”

Faith slapped her thigh with a gleeful laugh. “You would think that, Watcher man. Sucks for you that B here – not to mention the fucking Powers That Be – decided not to play it that way.”

Travers looked perfectly befuddled now.

“Sunnydale is fine,” Buffy added sharply. “No thanks to you or the little war you started. They’ve had some strange weather today, but nothing they won’t write off like they usually do.”

Travers looked almost surprisingly relieved at that. “Well, that is most capital, then.” At Spike’s feral sounding snarl, he paled. “For them,” he amended slowly, carefully rising from the ground. He cleared his throat and straightened his tie, looking business-like again. “I assume there is a reason you’re, ah, visiting?” He paused, blinking, as he looked back at Andrea. “Visiting your… niece. How–”

“That’s really none of your sodding business,” Spike said coldly.

Travers’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see. A set-up.” He sniffed in Andrea’s direction. “I could have your job for this, Miss Delancey.”

Faith gave him an incredulous look. “We’ve got your balls in a vice here and you’re threatening B’s family? Might want to rethink that before you come over all eunuch-y, dude.”

Buffy fought a smile as Travers sputtered incoherently at them. “You see, Mr. Travers, there’s a lot that you’ve not been informed about in Sunnydale.”

Travers lifted a brow. “Oh, I believe I heard plenty, Miss Summers.” He paused, eyes flicking to Spike, his voice oozing distain. “Or should I say, Mrs. the Bloody, as I hear it is now? Yes, I do think I was  _quite_  well informed.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed, ice cold, and only Buffy’s hand on his bicep kept him from moving forward again. He let her touch restrain him, nostrils flaring. “You’re about half a second from buying it, mate.”

Buffy took a deep breath. “As Giles has been trying to tell you for months, what Isaac Bowen reported to you was not the full story.”

“And the story he does know was incredibly twisted by his own assumptions,” Giles added rigidly.

Travers sat back down on Andrea’s guest chair, looking somewhat amused, as if he was humoring them. Asshole. “I assume I am to hear this story?”

“You are.”

“And what are you hoping to accomplish now that you may not have accomplished months ago?”

Buffy crossed her arms over her chest, fixing him with her best Slayer glare. “Maybe nothing. But that’s not going to change the end result of this, except to shove a little bit of enlightenment down your throat.”

Travers chuckled lightly. “Ah, so now we get to it. The real purpose of this rendezvous.” He regarded them all steadily, steepling his fingers in front of him. “What is the end result you’re looking for, Miss Summers? I have already called back the international partners due to Miss Delancey’s deception. The ones that could be called back, that is.”

Buffy shrugged. “Long term? The Council is going to finally be what it should have been before: mine and Faith’s support system. You’re here to serve  _us_ , not the other way around. We’re not evil, but – even if we were,” she paused, face cold, “well, that would just kind of suck for the side of good.”

Travers expression had grown stiff and hooded. “I see. You have a very curious understanding of the Council’s role, Miss Summers. But let us move on for the moment. That’s the long term, you say. What, pray tell, is the short term?”

“You’re going to turn over leadership of the Council to Giles, effective immediately.”

Travers barked a laugh. “I find that very unlikely.”

Something deep and hard welled in her and she took a step forward, unable to help a wave of satisfaction as Travers leaned back away from her. “Unlikely? Okay, let me tell you your alternative then.”

Travers’s mouth twisted. “If you please.”

“The alternative is that Spike and I dismantle your little self-important band of old men inch by inch, and let our partners show you the same mercy your partners showed to us.” When only silence met her statement, Buffy gave a tight, humorless smile. “So you tell me, Mr. Travers. Which one is more unlikely now?”

 

***

 

In the end, it took about a week to get the captured soldiers sent off back to their respective homes and countries, and several international phone calls to make sure Riley and Sam weren’t going to be tried for treason or deal with dishonorable discharge or whatever else the military had in mind.

Standing by the Finns' black Jeep as it idled, Riley enveloped Buffy in an awkward embrace. Spike, to his credit, just let out a barely audible growl until her ex-boyfriend released her.

“It’s been an adventure, Buffy,” he said with a slight, rueful smile. “Like it always is with you.”

“Never a dull moment around the Slayer,” she agreed easily, leaning back into Spike’s shoulder.

“If you’re ever in Brazil,” Sam added, as she climbed into the Jeep’s passenger seat, “you look us up, okay?”

“You got it.”

They watched as the Finns drove out of sight, then Spike made a small sound of disgust. “We’re not stepping foot in South America until next bloody century.”

 

***

 

In the end, Xander and Anya re-thought (well, Anya rethought – Xander just said “yes, dear”) their massive wedding and decided to do a small, casual affair a couple weeks after the almost-bombing.

“You know, I’m kind of digging this whole major life decisions under threat of apocalypse thing,” Xander said cheerily, as he sat watching Anya chat animatedly with Giles about monkey foot pricing in the Magic Box. “Really clears a guy’s head out.” He grinned. “Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I sort of forgot to tell the Harris clan that we moved the date up.”

Thomas laughed. “Makes wearing a bright green tie that much easier to bear, eh, mate?”

“I’m going to look like a bloody leprechaun,” Spike grumbled.

Buffy, Willow, and Tara exchanged knowing looks. “Talk to us again when you’re wrapped like a giant neon present, Elly,” Buffy said dryly.

Spike leaned over to her with a smirk. “Does that mean I get to unwrap you afterward, luv?”

“Only if you’re very, very good.”

 

***

 

In the end, the only entirely awkward part of the upcoming nuptials was when Halfrek suddenly poofed into the living room on Revello Drive for the bachelorette party.

“Anyanka, darling! How…” The vengeance demon’s eyes widened comically as they landed on Buffy. “Oh. It’s you.”

Buffy blinked at her for a long moment. Much like herself, Halfrek looked almost entirely the same, although she’d ditched the flowery white dress somewhere in the past century and settled on a perm. Buffy sort of expected a welter of emotions with the sudden appearance of the cause of her immortality – with at least the tiniest pinch of anger in there somewhere – but all that came out was a strange sort of calm. “Long time no see, Cecily.”

Halfrek gave her a pinched, sickly sweet smile. “I see you made it back to Sunnydale. So, no hurt feelings then?”

“Zero.” Buffy shrugged, her gaze hardening. “But if you grant any wishes while you’re here, then I’ll hunt you down and make you wish Spike had killed you a hundred years ago. Got it?”

There was a beat of silence, then Halfrek flounced into an open chair, ignoring the stares from the rest of the room and managing to hold an air of indignant insult. “Really, Slayer, manners just aren’t your strong suit, are they?” She fluttered her hand in the air. “This is Anyanka’s party. I wouldn’t  _dream_  of causing trouble.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

 

***

 

In the end, she and Spike didn’t end up leaving until May. One thing or the other kept them around, mostly in the shape of helping Giles wrangle the Council, or letting Dawn finish out the school year (since their Bit had decided to join them on their permanent holiday, at least through the end of high school, after an unexpected but very teenage break-up with Ant), or making sure Lawson was set up with everything he needed to maintain his fledgling community.

In the end, it was just the three of them headed off into the world – Buffy, Spike, and Dawn.

“We will find you in a few years, yes? When we grow tired of this Hellmouth,” Albert said easily, situated with Mathilde on the couch at Revello Drive.

“I’ll make sure nobody burns the place down, B,” Faith said, waggling her brows. She was taking over the master bedroom in their absence, after several months of prodding.

“I’m more worried about Sunnydale,” Buffy said, with a crooked smile.

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t burn down, either, Auntie,” Thomas told her, as she wrapped him into a tight embrace that made him grunt. Dawn rushed into his arms next and he lifted her off the ground with a whirl. “You take care of yourself, Miss Dawn.”

“We’ll see you at Christmas, my dear?” Giles asked from near the door.

“Or the next apocalypse,” Buffy amended wryly. “Whichever’s sooner.”

“Try not to cause too much trouble out there, General,” Lawson said, with the glimmer of a smile. His expression turned serious. “Been a whopper of a ride.”

“Oh, trust me,” Willow said lightly, “Hellmouthy whopperness isn’t going anywhere.”

“We’re full on whopper here,” Xander added.

Giles sighed. “Indeed.” He caught Buffy’s eye with a misty-eyed smile. “I shall miss you, Buffy.”

Buffy nodded, a lump in her throat as she surveyed their Sunnydale family. “We’ll call lots, okay?”

Spike grabbed their last suitcase and nodded to the assembled crowd. “But don’t want to hear a peep from any of you for the first sodding month.”

“Elly.”

“What?” He smirked at her. “And I’m going to make you too shagged out to even worry about it, pet.”

Dawn wrinkled up her nose. “Gross. If you guys do that the whole time, I’m leaving.”

Tara laughed. “If you need to escape, Dawnie, you know where to find us.”

“But not Xander and me,” Anya said pointedly. “We are taking full advantage of the traditional honeymoon period.”

Xander winced. “Yeah, better stay away from the apartment for a while.”

“Good lord,” Giles muttered. “You’d best escape now, before this conversation spirals entirely out of control.”

Buffy laughed, taking Spike’s hand in one of her own, and Dawn’s in the other. “Love you guys. We’ll see you soon.”

Willow gave her one last quick hug. “Tara and I are thinking Paris for summer vacation sounds right up our alley.”

“We’ll have the spare bedroom ready for you.”

Tara took her girlfriend’s hand and said softly, “Are you ready?”

“So ready,” Dawn said, with a bounce. “Oh my god, I get to teleport. This is way cool.”

Buffy fought a smile, looking over at Spike as he squeezed her fingers, his blue eyes warm and evaluating, with a hint of mischief. “Ready to give our holiday another go around, luv?”

She looked back at her friends and family all gathered elbow to elbow in the entryway and living room, her own history coating the walls behind them in a mishmash of old and new. She straightened with a deep breath, giving the room a last smile as Tara and Willow’s magic started to take hold. “Ready, Elly.”

And, within a breath, Sunnydale was gone.


End file.
